Psych Mixtape: Season 3 (A Shassie Lovestory)
by grabthefish
Summary: What they didn't show you on the series, set to an awesome 80's soundtrack. Starring Shawn Spencer! Carlton Lassiter! Burton Guster! Juliet O'Hara! Karen Vick! Henry Spencer! Feat: A High School Reunion! Denial! Betrayal! Sweet Sweet Man Kisses! Karaoke Night! Frame Jobs! Blow Jobs! Blow-ups! Helicopter Rides! Laser Tag! The Dead Clown Story! & much, much more! *New chpt 1-13 up
1. Dancing In The Dark & I Won't Back Down

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Dancing In The Dark/I Won't Back Down**

 ** _ ***** This chapter takes place directly after season 3 episode 1: Ghosts_**

 ** _** The accompanying songs are_ _Dancing In the Dark by Bruce Springsteen & I Won't Back Down by Tom Petty_**

* * *

Shawn was gobsmacked, a torrent of thoughts racing through his mind as he followed his mother out of the office and in to the hall, lifting his head and waving at his waiting father as he passed him by. The information his mother had gifted him with unnerved him, and he wasn't sure whether he wished he had known it sooner or not. It changed _everything_ , and though Henry was still a bastard for all he'd put his son through, Shawn thought that maybe he might owe his father an apology.

It didn't mean he was getting one, though. It just meant that maybe Shawn's responses to him throughout the years hadn't been fully informed. That maybe there was a little extra animosity where there shouldn't be.

But the precinct wasn't the place to get sensitive about it, so as he watched Madeleine greet her ex, he did his best to wipe the emotion off his face. Looking towards the bullpen in hopes of seeing someone who would cheer him up, he quickly spotted his partner in crime-solving standing next to his favorite blonde detective. Gus just looked ready to be interrupted, so, happy for the distraction and ready to wreck his pal's attempt to flirt, Shawn sauntered over.

"G-bro! Didn't know you were still kicking around!" he pounced, punching his best friend in the arm. "We get the check from Vick yet, or are we still waiting?"

Gus blinked in response, confused and hardly showing it at all. Shawn was a little proud of him, learning to roll with Shawn's punches - quite literally, in this case.

"Vick didn't hire us on this case, Shawn. There was no case. You made it up."

Shawn opened his mouth to argue, but Gus wasn't finished.

"And then you got caught. And _then_ you worked some voodoo magic or something."

"What -" Juliet started, bewildered by the statement.

"Thank you for the raise, by the way," Gus continued.

"So still waiting to get paid then."

His friends just stared incredulously and Shawn smiled back, amused by their mild annoyance.

As much fun as it was messing with them - and it was giant-sized barrels of amusement doing that - it wasn't nearly as enjoyable as bugging Lassie, the man's uptight demeanor far more entertaining to screw with. He loved it when the detective scowled at him, the look always sending chills up his spine, and the distinct lack of antagonized-detective induced tinglies made him wonder where the Lassiter had run off to, having been there when Shawn had ambled in that afternoon. Looking around, his eyes scanning over the many familiar faces of the bullpen, he finally noticed the man on his way back from the bathroom, grinning as his target was finally acquired. Even better than his imminent arrival, Lassie looked in a _mood_ , the usually meticulous man not even bothering to notice the trail of toilet paper attached to the heel of his shoe, which almost guaranteed Shawn would be able to get his goat. Looking like he was lost in thought, Lassiter's head snapped up when he heard Shawn's voice, a not-quite glower crossing his face as he saw who was hovering at his work space.

"Lassie!" Shawn called out, attempting to get the man's attention. "Looking sexy as usual!"

With a pallor paler than usual, Lassiter scowled and he walked towards them, re-buttoning the sleeves of his shirt as he did. Noting the man's complexion, Shawn hoped he wasn't getting sick. Though he enjoyed irritating Lassie and the reactions he received when he did, he never _actually_ wanted anything bad to happen to him, and sick was definitely considered a thing of bad.

Also, picking on Lassie when he was sick was like shooting fish in a barrel or playing Mario Kart against Gus - fun, but also a cheap and easy win.

"Spencer. Guster. What are you doing here? We don't have a case for you," the cop said, looking at them with a snarl. "Hopefully ever again."

Ahh, there they were. The first tingles of the day. _Thank you Mr. Head Detective._

"Carlton -" O'Hara admonished, but the Shawn interjected, his smile deflecting the unwarranted animosity with ease.

"No, Jules, it's okay. I know that's how Lassie says he loves me."

"I don't _love_ you, Spencer," Lassiter scoffed, his tone Victor Fries-post-mutation cold as he glared at the younger man. "You probably don't even know what love is."

Shawn froze, the comment cutting deeper than he was willing to let on.

Silence festered in the air and after a moment, Gus broke it, shifting uncomfortably as he confronted the detective - a move that both took Shawn by surprise and warmed his heart. Gus wasn't usually one to stand up to people, but he knew Shawn well enough to read the signs and had probably realized that his talk with his mom had been heavy. So, it was nice to see he was willing to act as an emotional buffer for his buddy. Shawn knew he kept Gus around for good reason, and this was just proof it was for more than his big sexy brain and leniency with his credit card bills.

"That was uncalled for, don't you think?"

The cop opened his mouth to - well, Shawn wasn't sure _what_ Lassie was going to say because he interrupted before the man got the chance.

"Well, I mean… he's not wrong," he said, attempting to shrug it off. The verbal swipe made him wonder what bug had crawled up Lassie's butt today, the cop acting more gruff than usual. It wasn't that Lassiter never reacted this way, but it usually took a lot more than a greeting to get him going; this time, he had skipped all the playful banter and cut right to the quick. It kind of smarted. "Way to go, buddy! Two for two - it's your big day!"

Earning himself another glower, he thwacked the detective on the shoulder and Juliet shot him a simpering smile, as if it could buffer Lassiter's mood. Though he knew it wasn't her intent, Shawn suddenly felt a little pathetic. He didn't want to be pitied for any reason, let alone because of what Lassie thought of him, and if he had his way, that would be the last time she ever looked at him like that.

"I'm sure that's not true, Shawn," she said as she turned toward her partner with a glare, clearly displeased with Lassiter's rude response. "Carlton's just cranky today and taking it out on you for _absolutely no reason._ He just finished his department mandated psych eval-"

"Unnecessary sharing of information, O'Hara," the Head Detective interrupted sternly, his hand up like it's presence would stop her.

Shawn just laughed, things starting to make sense. Of course! Lassie had seen Madeleine today! Probably right before Shawn had, as a matter of fact, and Shawn knew from experience that her deep and casual probing of his psyche could explain everything, her way of getting a person to open up ridiculously disarming.

"Guess that means we both had a good talk with dear ol' mumsy today, hey?" he said, his eyes twinkling in delight at accidentally stumbling across the perfect target to poke at. Two could play this game, and if it was a game of asshole one-upsmanship, Shawn was guaranteed to win.

Lassie looked at the psychic flatly, his lips pressed tight in a grim refusal to answer, the fact that he was discomfited obvious. Instead –

"What did she tell _you_?"

"Carlton!" Juliet almost squeaked in surprise, shocked to her feet from her spot against her desk. "That is unbelievably inappropriate!"

" _He_ started it. And he's _n_ _ever_ appropriate; what do you care?"

Juliet floundered for an answer while Gus just stared. Shawn said nothing, looking at the detective curiously and wondering what was going through that big-brained head of his. Because, as un-fun as it might be, he was willing to play along if it meant he could find out. He was always willing to bend over backwards for some insight into Lassie's brain. He'd bend over even further for some insight into Lassie's clothes, too, but that was neither here nor there.

"So, Spencer. What'd dear ol' mumsy tell you?" Lassie asked, mocking.

Shawn sighed, staring straight into the detective's piercing blue eyes.

 _Well, hell. If that's just not the million dollar question,_ he thought. _Let's just make it uncomfortable for everybody, why not?_

He paused a beat, then –

"That everything I ever thought I knew about love was a lie," he replied, as casually as he could.

As if it were something he admitted every day.

As if it weren't eating him alive inside.

Carlton started, the bare honesty of the statement unbalancing him, a look of shock quickly passing over his fine Irish features.

"Why, what'd she tell you, Carly?" Shawn asked, slinging the question back at him in return, knowing he was unlikely to answer but that it would rankle him nonetheless.

The cop looked at him, oblivious to the query, his mind seemingly miles away.

Well, that was surprising.

But, not thinking too hard about it, Shawn poked him in the chest to draw him out of his reverie, his digit lingering on the detective's sternum.

"Hellooo… Earth to Carly! What'd Mom tell you?"

Lassiter's eyes cleared. He looked at Shawn's finger and snarled.

Ahh, there he was. Detective Dour, back to being snappish and cold.

"None of your business, Spencer. Why don't you just go home? Nobody needs you here."

"Aww, but Lassie," Shawn pouted, slinging his arm around Juliet's shoulders for effect. "Jules and I were just catching up!"

"No we weren't. I was talking to Gus," she disagreed, shrugging him off and reclaiming her slouch.

"Ehh. I've heard it both wa-"

"Pretty sure you didn't," she interrupted, shaking her head at his grin and looking like she wondered how Gus put up with this on a daily basis.

Shawn just ignored her, dropping his arms and leaning in toward Lassiter, his head nearly on the man's shoulder as he tilted his body.

"Doesn't matter. Not important. Because now that _you're_ here, you can provide cheap thrills for me, can't you, Carly?"

Carlton glowered again, the name rankling him even more than 'Lassie' did, and Shawn wondered if the look would be as perpetual as it was if the cop really knew what it did to him.

"Come on, Lassie-so-sassy-with-the-nice-assy," he prodded, taking delight in the other man's discomfort, a plethora of irritating nicknames under his belt just ready to be unleashed on the sort-of suspecting man. "What'd my mama bear tell you?"

Gus snickered at the typical Shawnian response, and for it, Lassiter shot him a look of disdain. Juliet joined in with a giggle, which earned her a matching glare, hers a little darker for being the one to get Lassie into this mess. Shawn full-on belly laughed, knowing it would piss Lassie off the most, and the look he earned was one dripping with ire, almost as if Lassie thought he was the man most eligible to win the award for Most Annoying Person on the Planet™. Which he probably was, and was trophy that would look wicked cool on his desk at the office, if it were a real thing.

Shawn smiled back, as innocently as he could.

Downright angelically, even.

"I don't need this," the cop said, turning away from Shawn's false virtue, clearly frustrated and incapable of dealing with it. "I have work to do."

Sly dog that he was - and one not willing to give up his prize bone now he'd found it - Shawn turned with the detective, lassoing Lassiter's arm with his as they walked side by side, leaving Gus and Juliet behind. "No, really. Tell me about my mommy. Did she give you a dream diary?" he pestered. "Are you supposed to try to figure out why you want to marry your gun?"

Lassiter swatted him away, to no avail.

"Spencer, get your meat-hooks off of me!" he said, taking a futile step aside. Shawn stepped with him, not allowing the movement to dissuade him. "For your information, _no_ , she did not give me a dream diary," Lassiter continued, taking a steadying breath, as if realizing he was being sucked into Spencer's ploy but was unable to stop himself. "Nor do I want to marry my gun!"

Shawn chuckled, amused at Lassie's raised hackles.

Oh, this _was_ fun.

"Yuh-huh. So, what _did_ she say, then?"

"I am **_not_** having this conversation with you," the cop insisted as his eyes narrowed, proof of his irritation. "Go away."

Shawn ignored him, soaking the reaction up like a sponge.

"Sounds like you are to me, Lassiepants. C'mon, you can tell me. It'll be our little secret. What's got my favorite detective wound up tighter than a girdle on a Baptist minister's wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast?" he asked, strolling along beside Lassiter, a little more than a little too close. "Did you discover your deep seated desire to kiss boys or -"

And that was when Shawn found his arm gripped tight, his feet flying furiously beneath him as he was dragged unceremoniously through the nearest door, pushed down a darkened hallway, and shoved up against a wall, Lassie hissing at him to please, _for once_ , shut his friggin' mouth.

 _Huh._

It seemed he had hit a nerve.

* * *

Lassiter was at a loss for words.

In nearly two decades on the force, he had dealt with all sorts of irritants, but nothing and no one had ever managed to press his buttons as badly as the pest in front of him. Not even that one handsy drunk who'd literally tried pressing every button on Lassiter's button-down as he'd pulled him out of the street and put him in cuffs. It was almost like Spencer was a natural at it, which frustrated Carlton even further. He wished he knew what horrible thing he'd done in life to deserve being plagued by the existence of Shawn Spencer, the man a constant thorn in his side and one he couldn't seem to rid himself of. But outside of murdering orphaned children - a thing he'd never do - he had no idea what action would have resulted in his deserving _this_.

If Carlton believed in curses, he would have thought he'd pissed off a witch or something.

The man was just always there, it seemed. Day or night, and usually exactly the moments Carlton didn't want him to be. It was already bad enough the man had made a point of befriending half the precinct, regularly shoehorning his way into cases he had no right even knowing about, but now the little bastard had decided to dig into the detective's personal life as well, which simply could not stand. He was already in Carlton's head too much these days; he wasn't about to be given an All Access Pass. No matter what the 'psychic' said or how he goaded him, there was no way in _hell_ Carlton was going to discuss his sexual proclivities with the perceptive son of a bitch; not when he could barely discuss it with the man's mother in the first place – and she was a woman he respected, with an opinion he actually valued.

Madeleine had hit the nail on the head in their sessions when she'd suggested Carlton's sexuality was something he had deeply repressed. And he had, growing up in a Catholic household, knowing he was and being castigated for being different, then coming home one day when he was fourteen to find his mother declaring herself a raging lesbian. The hypocrisy was astounding, and he hadn't known how to wrap his head around it, shoving the feelings he had deep down inside to deal or not deal with another day. If he had his way, that's exactly where it would stay – buried in the darkest recesses of his mind, locked in chains, the key thrown away.

Because the last thing he needed was this man-child armed with _more_ ammo to aggravate him with.

"Lassie, it's okay," Spencer said, eyes sparkling mischievously. "We all know you want to kiss boys; it's obvious, the way you look at me."

He grinned, arching his eyebrow in what Carlton assumed to be a mocking manner.

"I said shut the hell up, Spencer," the detective growled, his fists clenched in frustration.

 _How does that little shit always seem to know..._

"Or what, Lassie?" the shorter man smirked, his back against the wall and arms at his side, body language submissive though his words were anything but. "You'll shoot? Isn't that what you did to get the evaluation in the first place? Didn't you almost shoot a cat?"

"How do you know- no, nevermind," Lassiter spat, deciding he didn't want to know - that it wasn't important. "It doesn't matter that I want to kiss boys, as you so eloquently put it. Or if I shot at a cat. It doesn't even matter if I dress up like Bozo the clown on Tuesday afternoons!" His jaw clenched in anger and he shoved a pointed finger in the fake psychic's face. "Just stay out of my business and keep me out of your shenanigans. Hell, just keep out of the precinct altogether, won't you? Do a guy a favor for once."

Spencer's grin faltered, just a little. It was not the reaction Carlton expected.

"You want to kiss boys?" he asked, his voice sounding almost… _hopeful_?

"Really, Spencer?" Lassiter asked through gritted teeth. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"You want to kiss boys?" Spencer repeated, ignoring Carlton's simmering rage.

"That's what you got out of this? I'm tempted to shoot you and you wanna know -"

"If that means you're as likely to kiss me as you are to leave me with a bullet wound," Spencer grinned salaciously, reaching out to grab the collar of the senior detective's pristine white shirt.

The cop stared for a moment, his brain whirring in disbelief as he attempted to register the words just spoken. The thought clicked - _Spencer wants me to kiss him_ \- and without even realizing he was doing it, he grabbed at the man's hands, pulling them away. But Spencer grabbed back - another unexpected reaction – threatening to turn their attack on each other into a slap fight before Carlton overpowered him and slammed the psychic's wrists into the wall behind the man's head.

Carlton felt his blood boil and groaned inwardly, questioning why this little prick always found the quickest and easiest way under his skin, cursing the fact that he let such personal information slip in the first place. His defenses were obviously still lowered from his earlier meeting with Madeleine and he should have known better than to approach his desk and the monster standing near it at all.

"I am _always_ more likely to shoot you than kiss you, Spencer," he replied, hoping his gaze was boring a hole in Spencer's head. Instead, it looked like it was turning the man on and Carlton didn't know how he was supposed to deal with that.

Spencer stopped for a moment, a faint blush on his cheeks.

He swallowed.

"I double dog dare you."

A thick silence hung in the air, soupy and strangling and Carlton blinked, reacting the only way he knew how, instinct overpowering any other thought he might have had.

"To shoot you, Spencer? Always happy to oblige."

"No," the younger man responded, his tongue ghosting over his lips.

Carlton suppressed an unanticipated shudder, the sight doing things to him that he didn't want.

"Kiss you?" he said, confused and a flustered and trying not to show either.

Shawn nodded.

"Why the hell would I kiss a flirt like you, Spencer?"

The psychic batted his eyelashes playfully, but the question was valid. Carlton wanted to - _had_ wanted to for quite some time, the desire to pin Spencer down and take what he needed from the man increasing with every smart remark, sometimes only because he wanted to shut him up - but his rational mind railed against it. He'd been closeted his whole life; he wasn't about to change that now and chance fucking everything up for a charlatan like Spencer.

"Because I make you feel special, Lassie. Duh."

Snarling, Carlton leaned in, his face pressed next to Spencer's ear.

" _My ex_ made me feel special. _Lucinda_ made me feel special. _You_ make me feel like a fool, you fucking fraud."

And it was true. Spencer did. But he also made Carlton feel things he hadn't tapped into in a very long time. Things he found himself constantly pushing aside, back down into that deep dark pit he put all his unwanted feelings in.

"You haven't let me make you feel anything yet, Lassie," Spencer teased lecherously, brushing off the insult as if it were water off a duck's back. "C'mon, Lassifrass. You won't know you don't like it if you don't try it at least _once,_ " he purred, the last of his words murmured against the tender flesh of Carlton's jaw. "I guarantee I'll make you tingle if you just give me the chance. My lips _are_ magically delicious after all."

The detective felt a jolt in his groin, his knees threatening to buckle as his sometimes-colleague's lips brushed against the skin of his throat.

 _What am I doing?_ he thought, finally noticing how he had Spencer pinned down. How his body pressed against the psychic's shorter, stockier build. How their fingers laced together without his meaning for them to. _This is wrong._

His lips were inches from the other man's own.

 _So wrong._

He could feel his pulse pounding; knew the other man felt it, too.

 _I shouldn't be doing this._

"Are you chicken, Lassie?" Spencer mumbled, the vibration of his voice causing the cop's skin to flush. "Do you wann-"

It was nothing to bridge the gap between them.

All sense of reason was lost as their mouths sealed together, their tongues battling for dominance in a bruising wet heat. The loud protestations of Carlton's conscience quickly faded into nothingness as Spencer's body writhed against his like he was determined to touch as much of him as he could with his hands still pinned above his head, and Carlton felt the world melt away, nothing left but him and the feel of Spencer's mouth on his. The psychic bit at Carlton's lower lip, his tongue darting out to lick where he had nipped, and Carlton moaned and responded in kind, blood surging straight to his groin, his hand falling to grasp the brunette by the back of his head.

 _Wrong wrong wrong. But, God - it feels so right._

The thought a shock to the system, they broke from each other, both struggling to catch their breath.

Carlton stepped back, his heart pounding in his chest, more turned on than he'd ever remembered being.

Spencer leaned against the wall before him, somehow seeming more at ease than Lassiter had ever seen him before, his skin flushed, eyes bright, and mouth looking just _promiscuous_.

"Hey, no touching the hair," the psychic said, a slow, languid smile creeping across his face. He ran his hand along the nape of his neck, looking at the detective with lust in his eyes, and Carlton froze, the gravity of what they'd just done hitting him like a runaway freight train.

He had kissed Spencer.

He had kissed Spencer while he was at _work_.

And he had _liked_ it.

 _Sweet Lady_ Justice, he thought. _What did I just do?_


	2. Don't You (Forget About Me)

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Don't You (Forget About Me)**

 ** _*This chapter takes place at the end of season 3 episode 2: Murder?... Anyone?... Anyone?... Bueller?_**

 ** _** The accompanying song is_** ** _Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds_**

* * *

Out of all the things she could have thrown onto her fabulous figure, Shawn couldn't believe Juliet had shown up to his high school reunion in that god-awful, barbie-doll-pink, reject prom dress.

"Thanks again for the help, Jules!" he shouted over the music as he got into the groove, choosing to ignore the fashion fail and focus on the fact that she'd arrived to assist with absolutely no notice instead. Her ugly dress aside, he was more grateful to her than he had words for and reminded himself to express that gratitude before night's end.

A thank you really wasn't enough; maybe he'd get her a case-cracked cookie to celebrate as well.

"Lassie never wants to play nice unless he gets all the credit!" he continued.

"Yeah, what was his deal tonight?" she called back, both twisting and shouting, her long blonde hair whipping behind her as she did. "I didn't expect to see him here on his night off!"

"Me neither!" Gus agreed as he bopped along with dance moves that should have been left in the nineties, and Shawn stifled his laugh, knowing it was better to save it for later than to take the mickey out of his friend now, what with the evening having been what it had.

"I dunno. Weird night for him, having to arrest his own date. Did anybody see him take off?" he asked nobody in particular, stopping as the song ended and turned into the ' _Cadillac Ranch_.'

The psychic had been hoping the Head Detective would pass on being the booking officer, it being his official day off and all.

Hoping that he might instead have some interest in staying to play with his pals.

Hoping he might stay to play with Shawn.

Wishful thinking.

Idiot boy.

Shifting positions, Juliet and Gus also paused; Jules effortlessly, Gus notsomuch.

"I think I saw him leave when they took Howie and Eileen back to the station," the pharmaceutical rep offered, an answer Shawn really didn't want to hear.

"Yeah, he said he wanted to be there when they book them. It's not often Carlton volunteers for paperwork," Juliet said, kicking her legs, first heel then toe, showing off skills Shawn hadn't seen since their American Duos debacle. He'd almost forgotten how graceful she was; a skill neither he nor Gus could ever hope to achieve. Well, maybe Gus could, but only while wearing tap shoes. "You think he's mad at you?"

"He's always mad at Shawn," Gus laughed, looking at Juliet's feet to guide him. Trying to fake rhythm to the vintage country bop tougher than it had at first seemed, he obviously had no idea what he was doing. It sure was fun to watch him try, though.

"He is not!" Shawn protested, rubbing his fingers against the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and pouting. "Well... maybe on days that end in 'y'."

The statement was true, unfortunately. Especially these days, where if he managed to corner the man, all Shawn got was a bitchy detective and an order to go away.

"What did I do this time anyhow?" he asked, feigning innocence, knowing exactly what he had done but having far more fun playing dumb. Besides, _they_ didn't know what he had done, and he couldn't wait to hear the answer his friends came up with.

"Well… you did interrupt his date with a murder investigation," Juliet said plainly, her heels clicking together in tandem with the rest of the graduating class of 1995 as she replied.

"That's not my fault!" Shawn squawked in denial. "When murder is afoot we must run and catch it!"

Laughing at him silently, his friends looked at each other and shook their heads.

"So, let me get this straight…" Gus started, and Shawn chuckled, knowing there was nothing straight about the situation. Lassie might not be gay, but the way he had kissed Shawn was proof that there was an attraction there, which made the whole thing bi, at least. "You think Lassiter was cool with you interrupting his date?" Gus continued, clearly curious as to where his friend was going with his train of thought.

"Pretty sure he was more okay with it than he let on," the pseudo-psychic smirked, recalling the ridiculous series of events that had occurred over the course of the evening. Not only ridiculous, but incredibly enlightening events - ones which had informed him of things he hadn't been entirely sure of before.

Juliet raised a perfectly sculpted yet questioning eyebrow.

"What makes you say that?" she pondered.

 _Oh, just the way I caught Lassie staring at my mouth when I told him we had a murder to solve,_ Shawn thought, snickering to himself as he reminisced. _Or the fake smile on his face as he said it was the best date he'd been on in a while._

He smiled knowingly.

 _How 'bout the way he leaned in closer than he needed to when he asked me about where the sabre-toothed dead guy was?_

Gus stepped in, unconsciously saving Shawn from his own mouth, about to accidentally betray a confidence he shouldn't.

"Must be that he knows Lassiter would never willingly date a fraud, no matter how desperate he is."

Shawn deflated a little at the words.

 _Which is why I should forget about my kiss with Lassie altogether._

"You know that's right," Shawn agreed, voice small as the thought brought him crashing down.

Shawn was knew he had to stop obsessing over his lip-lock with Lassiter. It wasn't healthy, and based on the fact that Lassie hadn't brought it up since, it was hard to believe it would ever happen again. But it had become the most prevalent thought in his head - a thought with the potential to take over his life if he let it - and he found himself thinking of the way the cop's mouth pressed against his own with almost every waking minute, his eidetic memory flashing it before him in technicolor.

It was just...

Lassie had always been vocal in his opinion of Shawn's 'abilities'. _Extremely_ vocal, in fact; the cop taking every chance he could to castigate him over his claim.

Yet, for reasons unknown, he had sucked face with the psychic anyhow.

It made Shawn think, and in the moment he took between steps to do so, he recalled what his father had said - that what defined him was the choice he made in the moment - and how it could apply just as well to Snarly Carly as it could to Juliet or Abigail. Maybe even more so, neither fine female making his heart pitter-patter like it had after his and Lassie's round of tonsil-hockey.

Neither fine female currently being featured in his nocturnal emissions.

So what choice did he want to make? Where did he want his life to go?

As much as he had once wished otherwise, Juliet had made it clear that she wasn't ready to go beyond flirting at this point, if ever, and it almost made him feel bad for how hard he'd tried. When he'd first met her, Shawn had hoped that their chemistry would ignite, but she seemed afraid to start something, so instead it fizzled where there should have been flames. He had a feeling that they could share something special if ever they had the chance, but he just couldn't see himself waiting for her forever if she was never going to be sure. And that was okay. She was allowed her feelings, and even if she wasn't going to share, he wasn't going to begrudge her them. But uncertainty was something he had never learned to deal with well, the idea feeling like a threat to his survival. In his opinion, if you didn't know, you should try, action guaranteeing your answer and freeing you from the hell that was limbo. She wasn't willing, and that proved that deep down, they weren't as compatible as Shawn has hoped they'd be.

Speaking of waiting around forever, Shawn had also once thought he would love the chance at a relationship with Abigail. This time it was he who was afraid - afraid that she might never be more than a fantasy, his own manic pixie dream girl. He hated that term, hated the fact that it was possible he was projecting his adolescent self onto her, and hated that he would never find out without the risk of someone getting hurt. It was just like how they say you should never meet your idols in case they disappoint you.

Not that Abby would disappoint. That was Shawn's role, after all.

But back then, it had seemed like because he had wanted it so badly - wanted something _normal_ so badly - it had only been destined to fail. Everything he did at that age was a failure, or at least that's what Henry had lead him to believe. So, if his non-relationship with Abigail had failed then, what hope did an _actual_ relationship have for success now? His thirty-one year-old self was no less fearful of the situation than his seventeen year-old self had been, and adult life meant the stakes had been raised even higher, didn't it?

Maybe it was fate.

She had joked about waiting another ten years to see each other, after all. That had to mean something, his subconscious had screamed, honing in on her hesitance. And who knew what kind of trouble he could get up to in that time? Or how many missed moments could occur if he chose to wait for her like he had made her wait for him?

Besides, ten years or forever didn't matter when both felt like torture.

Shawn had spied Juliet in the crowd after his romantic movie-moment kiss with Abby, but it was really Lassie he had been looking for.

 _Maybe Lassiter had been a moment_ _,_ he mused, his skin flushing at the thought.

 _Maybe there could be another..._

"Think he tried to tell his date the dead clown story?" Shawn asked out of the blue, trying to revive the flagging conversation and happy when the song finally changed to Tears For Fears - music guaranteed to soothe his wounded soul.

Juliet shrugged, her hair in her face as she danced hiding her bemused expression.

"Hey, what the hell ever happened to that clown, anyhow?"

* * *

Carlton couldn't believe his luck.

His horrible fucking luck.

His first date in god knows how long and he stumbled into Spencer because _of course_ it was his reunion Carlton had been dragged to.

How was it even possible? Did the universe have a vendetta against him or something?

It was almost unnerving, his inability to escape the man.

He'd been so excited, too, his date a foxy blonde he'd met at a concert – one who'd made the moves on him and not the other way around. It was so rare he'd thought she was joking at first, and when he realized she wasn't, he'd nearly jumped at the chance to go out with her. Though he'd originally thought it odd she'd suggested he join her at her reunion, the more he thought about it, the less it bothered him. In fact, the more he thought about it, the better it had made him feel about himself. Why wouldn't an attractive woman want to show him off, after all? A high school reunion was a place to brag about your successes, and he was the epitome of success, being a relatively good-looking cop with no kids and what he'd thought was minimal baggage.

He was starting to understand he was wrong about that last part, of course, but that's something she didn't know about and he hadn't planned on sharing. It wasn't as important as the many other awesome things about him. Hell, he wasn't just a cop, he was Head Freaking Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department! That was an occupation that was no easy feat to attain, and if that didn't say success, he didn't know what did. So, what did it matter if he hadn't been completely honest on their first and, keeping up with his current track record, only date? After all, she wasn't quite what she'd said she was either.

 _Who the hell has a thirteen-year high school reunion anyway?_ he thought, exasperated, tapping his pen against his desk and staring at the last of the paperwork needed to process the ex-prom queen and king turned killers.

Of course, Carlton never would have gone to the reunion had he not gone to the concert and that he could fault his sister for. He hadn't seen her it what seemed like eons and, having been feeling low, had taken her up on her offer to spend time together. But that was before realizing that what she had in mind was a Ravi Shankar concert. He would do anything for his baby sister, however, so figured that the quality time they shared would more than make up for the inevitable feeling of his ears bleeding out, the 'music' bound to assault his senses.

Alas, at the very last minute, Lauren had texted him with an insane story about big beached whales and big-wig billionaires and a big debacle that she didn't really want to get into, along with an apology because she was bailing on him to go film. She begged him to still attend and more importantly, because she knew he wouldn't without her ordering him to, try to have fun. Carlton loved his sister, and willing to forgive her anything, agreed to go and used his free ticket. He figured he could at least score 'best big brother' points by filling her in on what she'd missed, maybe even get her some video if he was able to avoid security at the Santa Barbara Bowl. If nothing else, the experience would net him a solo evening out, which he hadn't had in a long time and very much deserved.

It was better than another night of swilling scotch and cleaning his guns, anyhow.

Though he'd never admit it publicly, Carlton had accepted the date with 'Mindy Howland' for one other reason - a reason he didn't even want to admit to himself. Simply, he needed to get his mind off of Spencer and the very stupid thing he had done at the station the week prior. he didn't know what had come over him and honestly, didn't want to think of it, doing everything he could to distract himself from the memory. Unfortunately, the date had proven to be another stupid idea, although he couldn't fault it too hard. There was no possible way for him to know that the evening would turn out like it had.

No reason for him to think he'd spend the night stuck with the man causing his cognitive dissonance.

No reason to think Mindy would turn out to be a fraud.

What was it with liars and their attraction to the Lassiter clan, he wondered. His father had been the same, or so his mother had told him many a time, in rants far too inappropriate for his adolescent ears to hear. His sister had also had her fair share of fakers and fools, leaving a trail of losers in her wake. As for him - well, he was sure his ex-wife hadn't been honest, staying with him for far longer than she should have simply to spite her old man. It wasn't the greatest of feelings, so being stuck in the situation he currently found himself in created a hair-tearing type of frustration, running from a simmering attraction for one fake straight into the path of another.

Though he'd tried to avoid Spencer since his lapse in judgment, it was to less avail than he would have liked. Things were far easier when the psychic wasn't around, Carlton finding himself less inclined to resign to immaturity and impetuousness; the lack of goading and poking and prodding allowing him to remain his levelheaded self... the levelheaded self who was questioning what on god's green earth caused him to fall for Spencer's taunts and tangle tongues with the man in the first place.

The whole thing was just silly. Spencer represented so many things that Carlton despised, but the cop couldn't stop thinking of him no matter how hard he tried. He was also fairly sure he'd inadvertently lined himself up for mockery, expecting Spencer to spread the news like a human megaphone. It wasn't like the liar needed any more help humiliating him, and yet here Carlton was, handing him a 'How To' manual.

The cop shook his head at the thought, wishing he could leave for a drink and sighing in defeat instead. He should have just had McNab book the bastards, the time it took to do the deed making him desperately desire the near-full bottle of Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch he had sitting on the top shelf of his liquor cabinet at home. But he hadn't, and now he was stuck there on his night off, his perfect distraction becoming more of a pain in the ass with every minute that passed.

 _Maybe I've been hitting it a little hard this week,_ he considered, trying to staunch his craving with a sip of water. _I_ _should get up early and go fishing tomorrow. Get Spencer off my mind, the irritating little prick._

Spencer didn't made it easy though.

Nothing was ever easy where he was concerned. Not even crime-solving.

Carlton couldn't believe the other man had discovered a murder at his own damn reunion; at this rate it was a wonder Spencer could take a crap without finding a corpse on the john. It was like the man attracted trouble, which was another reason he needed to pull his head out of his ass and set himself straight. The feelings for the false prophet he found himself thrown by were a fluke. _Nothing but a fluke_ , he kept telling himself.

But of course Spencer would find a way to ruin the first date Lassiter had been on in months.

And _of course,_ he'd find a legitimate reason to do so.

Despite Carlton's insistence of no corpse, no case, Spencer had persisted. Finding both the body and the bad guys, he had made Carlton feel all the more a fool. But how the hell was he supposed to know that Spencer hadn't been full of it when the fake was such a natural at fucking up the his day? Carlton hadn't believed him at first, having thought it was a ploy to pull his attention away from his date and onto the psychic instead, an act entirely up the man's alley. But he should have, and now he was regretting he hadn't, just like when he'd found that fucking dinosaur.

Carlton had always had difficulties taking Shawn seriously and their unintended intimacy only added a thick tension that set him on edge. If it weren't for the ex-Mrs. Spencer peeling back the plaster he'd used to wall his proclivities in with, he was sure their lip-lock never would have happened in the first place. Had he not been feeling vulnerable, his veneer never would have cracked and Spencer wouldn't have been able to take advantage of his susceptible state. Or at least, that's what he was telling himself, false though the thought may be.

Carlton dropped his head in his hands, glad that he alone was privy to his thoughts, that lip-lock stuck in his mind.

 _Dammit. I shouldn't be thinking like that. He's a pest and a pain in my ass._

But his lips were softer than Carlton had imagined, and he was startled to find that he imagined them often.

That he, in fact, thought of Spencer almost all the time.

He remembered the whisper of stubble against his jaw as their tongues had intertwined.

The warm breath of the other man as he pulled away, eyes glazed and unfocused, drunk on passion.

He remembered his heart beating in time, dancing against Spencer's as they pressed against one another.

Every time he closed his eyes.

Every moment he had to himself.

Every time the psychic's name was said in passing…

He remembered.

 _For fucks sake._

Ignoring the chemistry between them was going to be impossible.


	3. Feel It Again

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Feel It Again**

 ** _*This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 3: Daredevils!_**

 ** _** The accompanying song is Feel It Again by Honeymoon Suite_**

* * *

Carlton couldn't help but think the dead clown story was funny.

He knew it might not be everyone's cup of tea, but _he_ found the situation hilarious, so thereby intended to keep telling the tale regardless of how many people he might offend by doing so. He would never find a person with a macabre sense of humor to match his own if he worried about chasing off dates he wasn't compatible with anyhow, so he wasn't about to stifle himself simply to make them feel better.

Besides, as he was often reminded by both colleague and criminal, his personality was off-putting enough that a silly little story about a dumb clown-clad crook was the least of his worries.

 _Honestly,_ he thought, _if she didn't want me drawing pictures, then she shouldn't have chosen a place with crayons on the table._

It was no wonder his date had failed.

Carlton knew he should have seen the signs beforehand – they were there, in flashing neon, after all - and his inability to notice them made him feel like a failure. The worst had been her choice of where to dine, which should have screamed at him to run, far and fast. Disregarding the many great dining experiences to be had in Santa Barbara proper, she had, for some reason, requested to be taken to a chain restaurant instead - the words 'culinary' and 'cuisine' clearly not in her vocabulary.

He'd laughed, thinking it was a joke they could share, but to his chagrin, it turned out she really liked rubbery food, so he'd actually managed to upset her twice in only a matter of minutes, setting himself a new record.

How he'd thought the dead clown story would save the date was beyond him, but at least he'd had a moment of mild amusement at the look of horror on her face before she'd left to the lady's room; an excuse to escape if ever he saw one.

Far from the first time he'd been abandoned at a table after a date gone wrong, Carlton had decided to pay the bill and leave, not bothering to see if she was coming back. If she did, she could enjoy the rest of the meal herself, his having left everything but the surprisingly scrumptious crab cakes. Those he would take home to pity-eat while he watched his favorite movie, trying his best to forget the evening and the feelings that it brought about.

 _Heartbreak Ridge_ was aptly named, and sometimes he wondered if he, like Highway, should take to reading women's magazines in an attempt to understand the frustrating female mind.

Because O'Hara seemed to be taking lessons on how best to pester him from their pain-in-the-ass psychic consultant, he'd made the mistake of letting it slip to his partner that the date had been a bust, and he really wished he'd withstood the onslaught of questions better. Her haranguing getting the better of him, Carlton couldn't understand why she was making it a bigger deal that it actually was; she shouldn't have been nosing around in his personal business in the first place.

But, even though he did so begrudgingly, he had to admit to himself that there was a small part deep down inside that was glad that she had. Her nosiness had made him feel like he had a friend on the force, something his lone wolf personality had resisted against for the bulk of his career. The feeling was nice - though lasting only as long as his ignorance did, it was also short-lived, both flustering and embarrassing him when he found out she had done the deed upon orders from the Chief.

Carlton wished he'd had this information before he'd made an ass out of himself in front of the younger woman, struggling to believe how _insanely_ off-base he'd been during their stakeout, assuming the junior detective was hitting on him when she had been sizing him up for someone else instead. Between that horrible misfire and his having mistaken a hooker for one of O'Hara's friends, he was wondering how he'd ever had any luck with women at all. That and whether he should even continue to try, the evening potentially being a sign he shouldn't.

What had it been that had caused Victoria to fall for him in the first place?

How the hell could he replicate that feeling with another?

Was it even possible?

The detective wanted and had every right to be offended at his boss for ordering such an unprofessional act… however, he also had to acknowledge that he needed the assist if he didn't want to end up alone the rest of his life, his prospects wearing particularly thin. Though it made him doubt his skills as both a man and detective - something he was doing a lot of these days – he was glad his inference had been incorrect. But actually accepting the help being offered was something else entirely.

Though O'Hara was nice enough not to say it, Carlton knew he wasn't the world's greatest catch; both his most recent date and the disaster of the one he'd had at the reunion acted as proof of that. He was a half-step away from being divorced, his hair was starting to grey, and his firearm was his best friend. It didn't matter what his job was or what his 401k meant if he could never get anyone to stick around long enough to talk about them.

Having found it easier than he'd expected to confide in the woman (even though she had spawned the man currently making his life miserable), he knew he should've talked to Madeleine about these things when he'd had the chance. At the time though, they'd had other, deeper, more pressing things to focus their attentions on, and he'd been too distracted diving into those problems to realize that he'd had plenty of others to contend with. It turned out he needed far more help managing his adult life than he'd originally thought, which was just one more realization that depressed him, kicking his anxiety in to high-gear.

As much as he didn't like it, seeing Dr. Spencer had been enlightening, and though the scared little boy inside of him wished he could go back to burying his head in the sand, the rest of Carlton recognized that he'd begun an important excavation process - one that would steamroll him if he wasn't on board with it. She'd brought up feelings he hadn't been prepared for; ideas which made him uncomfortable because he knew that they were true - ones that wouldn't go away just because he wanted them to – and painful though they were, they were necessary to his healing process. But his personal failures made him feel like a fool, and it was in moments like this that her absence affected him, making him wish there'd been a way she could have stayed in Santa Barbara longer.

…even if it meant her son being in the office more often than Carlton wanted.

He had kept it to himself, but he'd quietly begun to look for help after she'd gone, knowing that he couldn't turn back but was incapable of moving forward without some kind of professional help. Outside of renting a hooker, which he'd never _intentionally_ do, therapy was clearly his best bet. So, although the thought chafed at him, the way he'd been raised making him think he was weak for reaching out, he put his pride aside and searched.

He couldn't believe how he'd treated Madeleine at first, his attempt at deflection downright rude. But the liberation he'd felt at the ability to trust again was intense enough that he had to continue to try to recreate that connection with another doctor, much as he'd rather shoot himself in the face.

She'd left him recommendations of course - a list of local psychologists who might be willing to take him on - but he'd blown through most of them without an inkling of attachment, making him mourn the bond they had formed. True, he'd given those on her list far less time than he'd afforded her, but none of them had ever attempted to relate to him in the way she had. In his books, that meant anything more would be a waste of time for all parties involved, and he just wasn't willing to waste that kind of time. So, until he found a person who could help him find himself, it was up to him to figure it out on his own.

Before she'd left, Dr. Spencer had suggested he start analyzing things in a way he wasn't used to. She'd wanted him to try considering his actions regarding their correlation to his upbringing and social conditioning rather than doing what he usually did by shoving his feelings into a small, dark place until they suffocated, or suffocated him. Apparently, allowing himself to feel would allow for identification, the first step in dealing with his many unwanted emotions. It was a far healthier alternative no matter how painful it might be, she had said, suggesting that those same actions could be responsible for a large portion of his inhibitions. Dissecting them, she'd insisted upon his token contention, would only result in him pleasantly surprising himself.

He'd taken her advice, finding himself surprised on more than one occasion. He was still waiting for one of his epiphanies to be pleasant, though.

Sometimes those breakthroughs were thrilling, like he was unraveling the twisted mystery of his own history - rediscovering the things that made him himself.

Other times, he was terrified, cowering in the darkest recesses of his mind as he assessed a part of himself over which he felt he had no control.

Oftentimes, he found himself re-enacting ancient memories, desperate to figure out where he had gone wrong and how he had strayed so far off the path, only to realize the path had never truly been there to begin with.

This time, he sat and considered his last crap-shoot of a date and how he'd at least managed three arrests in one night, the thought making him feel infinitesimally better. If his romantic life was destined to fail, thank god his career was thriving, at least. It was just a shame his last feeling of success was due to arresting his evening's own paramour.

His partner had shown up at the precinct that night, a few hours after he'd brought the bitchy banana back for booking. O'Hara had said it was to see how he was doing, and he'd smiled a wan smile at that, taking small pleasure in the fact that she knew him well enough to know he hadn't been comfortable heading home to be alone after such an encounter. The reminder of that moment had made him realize that regardless of the Chief's misguided request, O'Hara really was more than a partner - she was, in fact, trying to be his friend.

The Head Detective wasn't usually one to share his feelings let alone admit to having them, but if he were, she was the one he'd choose to share them with. Carlton remembered being disenchanted with the idea of having to partner with a wet-behind-the-ears rookie recently transferred up from Florida, having assumed he would have to do all of the heavy lifting as well as his official job of training her. Not only had she surprised him by quickly showing her tenacity and a natural wherewithal for the job, she did so with a sense of grace that was rarely found in a place as patriarchally charged as the precinct.

She was also seemingly the only person there capable of actual care.

Setting her bag on his desk and straightening her dress as she sat, O'Hara had told him she'd come from dropping off the drunken and melodramatic duo of Spencer and Guster at their office; the former having caused some trouble when he'd insisted they stop by with a congratulatory cookie for Carlton because, according to the psychic, "bagging three big ones in a single night deserves Butter Nut Crunch". He'd also said he had wanted to make Carlton smile, super-sorry that he had not-quite-intentionally ruined the detective's chance at romance.

Startled, Carlton was confused by the statement, especially the not-quite-intentionally part, and his breath catching in his throat as he waited for O'Hara to inquire as to what it could have meant, sighing in relief when she skipped right past it to continue her story.

Thankfully, Carlton had thought, all of Santa Barbara's bakeries had been closed by the time the group left the dance, with neither Spencer's partner nor his own willing to drive to L.A. at one in the morning, no matter how much pleading or begging had been involved. And begging and pleading Spencer had done in spades.

The psychic had apparently whined at that proclamation, changing tactics and - claiming that his inability to retrieve the yummiest of snacks made him feel like he was letting the Head Detective down - trying to trick them into robbing a closed Dunkin' Donuts instead. O'Hara had informed Carlton of this with a grin, kicking her heels off and reclining in her chair as she did. It had taken nearly twenty minutes of convincing, coddling and collusion between she and Guster, she'd said, before they'd been able to pour the psychic into the car and persuade him to give up his quest, firmly reminding him that as a cop, she would lose her job if they went through with his hare-brained scheme.

Once he had realized that Carlton could either have cookies or keep his partner, Spencer had decided that she was of far more import than the baked goods were and allowed himself to be driven home with the promise that Juliet would "give Lassie big smoochies!" when she next saw him – which, of course, the Head Detective would in no way allow. Hearing that, Carlton had wondered aloud why they had gotten wasted, having been stone-cold sober at his point of departure. O'Hara had simply laughed in response, mentioning something about the traditions of a spiked punch bowl alleviating Spencer's oddly somber mood.

When he asked her why she had turned into the chaperone instead of joining them, he wasn't entirely surprised by her reply.

"Shawn seemed off. Like something was eating at him, even though he should have been celebrating," she had said, tucking a strand of wheat-blonde hair behind her ear. "I figured it wouldn't hurt to let them have fun, and a mickey full of whiskey in the already spiked punch-bowl was as good a distraction as any. I brought my car and wasn't drinking, so it was no big deal to be the designated and drive them home. I didn't mind, and besides, drunk Shawn is the best kind of cheap entertainment…"

She paused, briefly considering her next words and wrinkling her nose.

"Although, he is a little clingy."

A twinkle in her eye, Juliet had smiled, and Carlton had glowered, picturing the many possible problems likely to pop up were he to be in the same space as the sloshed psychic. He could only imagine how handsy the man was while liquored, and having experienced being groped while Spencer was sober, he was glad he had left when he did.

It was odd that the fake had become forlorn after his departure, though.

Odder yet that he'd been so determined to bring back baked goods as penance of some sort.

It was apparently his way of saying… something. Carlton only wished he knew what it meant.

He had noticed that Spencer was like that, though; he'd never make sense to anyone who tried to decipher his actions, but it was clear that he always had a reason for them, nevertheless. Logic being the cop's second-best friend, it drove Carlton nuts that Spencer was irritating in his idiosyncrasies. But, he also obviously cared about the people he surrounded himself with, which only made him that much harder to hate.

And oh, hate Carlton did try.

He missed the days when things were black and white - when the lines between the two of them hadn't been blurred – and more than thankful O'Hara had inadvertently helped him dodge a bullet, he didn't want to think of what other reason Spencer might have had to want to see him that night. The mood he had been at the time hadn't been conducive to that kind of company, and though he had appreciated his partner's unexpected presence, he was incredibly happy he had somehow managed to avoid the pest.

The man's reaction was still troubling, though.

Carlton was finding a lot troubling these days; his pre-conceived notions failing to pan out in ways that profited him, his entire world felt like it was falling apart, the man living an existence he was entirely unaccustomed to. He had even almost managed to fool himself into thinking Spencer had a serious side, the speech the psychic gave about Guster and greatness at the reunion surprising the hell out of him, and it was only the man's act of idiocy a week later that had saved Carlton from his unwanted feelings.

He hadn't known what to think when it had happened; in the process of extracting the bad guys from the building, he had overheard sentiment he hadn't known possible spill from Spencer's mouth, freezing him in his tracks and sending his thoughts flying.

It had shocked him, and he, a man not easily taken aback.

The thing was, he had spent so long thinking of Spencer in one light that it was jarring to see him in another. He didn't _want_ to see him in another; he was already struggling to see him as he was. It was easier when he could simply label him a waste of space and move on with his life. However, as much as he wished he could slip into that old skin, Carlton was stuck thinking otherwise - the pseudo-psychic having started starring in his dreams, and sadly, no longer the fun use-him-for-target-practice kind.

It was why he was happy to hear the giant man-child had reverted to form a whole six days later, orchestrating something as imbecilic as the "daredevil-off" that had resulted in McNab wiping out on a row of office chairs in his attempt to dive over them, the act aggravating enough that it shocked Carlton back to his senses.

It had been just as much McNab's fault as it was Spencer's, of course, and Carlton had shaken his head, curious as to how the man had made it as far as he had in life being so susceptible to stupidity. He was glad the junior officer was okay, but the Chief had let him off lightly in his opinion. Vick had given Buzz a stern reprimand, letting him learn from his mistake, his limp acting as punishment enough, whereas Carlton would have ordered a week-long suspension to ensure the point was driven home.

Spencer got away scot-free, McNab refusing to rat him out and O'Hara insisting it was no big deal. It was a big deal to _him_ though, more proof that the psychic's charm could change the world if he let it. And having had his world changed by Spencer far too much already, Carlton didn't want that power pointed anywhere near his direction.

But…

What was it about the psychic that had burrowed its way into his psyche?

How the hell could he extract it and allow himself to gain focus again?

And more importantly, the question he tried his best not to ask himself -

Did he really want to?

Carlton swallowed, the thought crossing his mind more often than he cared for.

Because, the thing was…

He wasn't sure he did.

And that thought scared him more than anything.


	4. Here I Go Again

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Here I Go Again**

 _ ***This chapter takes place at the end of season 3 episode 4: The Greatest Adventure In The History Of Basic Cable**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Here I Go Again by Whitesnake**_

* * *

Having been held at gunpoint by a helicopter – a new experience for the man who'd had many a firearm shoved in his face – Shawn's perspective on life had drastically changed as of late. To his surprise, his best friend seemed willing to die over an $80 Puma, a fact he never would have expected from the fraidy cat. Even more surprising, his uncle was a big fat fucking _liar_.

He shouldn't have been so shocked, he knew. The signs had been staring him straight in the face for years, and as much as it hurt to admit, his father had told him the truth about Jack – more times than Shawn could probably count, actually. But that wasn't something he wanted to think about because doing so meant he'd have to acknowledge that he'd turned a blind eye for far too long.

It meant that his interactions with his uncle since god-knows-when were as tainted as Rob Lowe's reputation post sex-tape leak.

It meant that he needed to erase another relationship and the millions of memories attached to it from his mind and from his life.

It was tiring, losing loved ones because they weren't what they said they were.

And yes, he understood the irony in that.

Betrayal always hit Shawn hard. It was tough enough for him to find people to trust that when they did stab him in the back, to him, the pain was quite literal. This time, with the uncle he had hero-worshipped since he was a tyke, he had almost wished he'd been knifed instead. The wound from that would be easier to heal from, anyhow.

It had been inevitable; once Jack had gotten mad about the lack of map, Shawn knew in his heart of hearts that their escapade wasn't going to end well. Even with the gold in hand, he couldn't consider it a success, not with what he had lost in the process. However, instead of facing reality, he had buried his head in the sand, glad Jack had changed his tune and regifted his love upon Shawn proving useful.

It hurt, that proving useful was the only way to gain the man's affection, especially because Shawn had loved Uncle Jack more than words could say.

As a kid, he would have even said that he loved his uncle more than he did his own father. That's what Henry had accused him of after he'd had Jack take his place on 'Career Day', anyhow. Henry had argued that it was an insult to both him and the great profession of policemanship. Jack's gallivanting hardly qualified as a career, he'd said, which furthermore acted as proof that a father – even a fake one – was the last thing his brother should be. It was the biggest slap in the face Shawn could have given him and had earned the elementary school student a tirade and a half, only ending once his mother had returned home and called for a cease and desist.

Henry hadn't talked to him for two days afterwards; two of the best days of his young life.

Jack had smartly disappeared for a while after that, resurfacing a few years later with another wild story and an even wilder adventure - both reasons he had loved the man so dearly.

Jack had been the opposite of Henry in every way that young Shawn thought mattered. That was why it had been so easy for him to forgive the Houdini act, the young boy looking for a lifeline outside his own home, regardless of the fact that the line he had chosen was just drifting, attached to no one and nothing but his ambition. Shawn's uncle was adventurous, humorous, and fun, so nothing else mattered.

Jack was the one who had his back, his easy-breezy attitude fending off Shawn's father as he explained their latest bouts of chicanery or went off on why the cop should lighten up on his young son - something that just infuriated the stick-in-the-mud more. He had been Shawn's hero; proof that you could grow up with an ornery old-before-his-time old man like Henry and still get to live a life full of fun.

So, no matter how much his dear old dad had espoused of Jack's detriments, Shawn had managed to ignore them all until now, too wrapped up in fantasies and fallacies to see the truth had been staring him in the face the whole time. Sadly, he had seen his uncle through eyes clouded with naïveté. Now that he knew that Jack had not only been aware of it but had been using it to his advantage, though, he could never look back.

That boy was dead, his idealization of his uncle drowned in a river of tears he refused to cry; the love of his own nephew meaning less to the man than glory, Shawn wasn't comfortable emoting that intensely over a man who turned out to be that big of a bastard.

He couldn't believe he was thinking it, but his father had been right all along.

It just wasn't fair.

Twenty years of bonding over the myth of Bouchard circling the drain, the despair over the death of their relationship shook Shawn to the core. He couldn't even begin to understand why the man had abandoned faith in him so quickly, having refused to believe in Shawn like Shawn had believed in Jack year after year. He'd thought their relationship better than that. He'd gotten into fights with his father over his adventures with his uncle time and again, after all, something Jack was well aware of.

Yet still, he wrote the psychic off like he was yesterday's news.

It cut. Deeply.

And it was a laceration he knew would never heal.

Shawn had thought their bond was stronger than adamantium, and it pained him as much as a Wolverine claw to the sternum to finally understand how wrong his assumption had been. Instead, it had been fool's gold, and he felt all the more a fool for it.

True, Shawn had just betrayed his uncle in return, but beyond being well deserved retribution, it had been to save his own skin, something that never would have been necessary had Jack not been the lying scoundrel that he was. Besides, it wasn't like he was keeping the gold anyway...

Well, not much of it.

 _I guess love blinds even the most perceptive son of a bitch_ , Shawn mused, as he stirred his thick Red Robin's milkshake. _Well, jokes on you. No treasure for Uncle Jackie._

Shawn took a sip, considering the day's events.

It wasn't just that Jack had been eager to betray him that he found irksome. It was that his uncle had been more than happy to overlook his experience as a psychic detective, completely ignoring his prior successes with a flippant comment and flip of the hand. Neither Shawn's thirty-odd official solved cases nor his scores of unofficial ones were relevant to the situation, it had seemed, which was the biggest punch to the gut.

It was like in a single breath, his uncle had erased all his hard work.

Had invalidated the legitimacy of his existence.

Had looked at him the same way his father had done.

He wasn't the joke they thought he was, though, which was why Shawn didn't feel all that bad about proving that he could, in fact, snow the snowman. He just wished he hadn't had to.

 _Strike one more off the list of trusted allies,_ he thought, saddened when he realized his already small list had just gotten shrunk again.

For a moment, it made him wonder if he was the one at fault.

Other than his best not-Bud, Shawn had always found it difficult to find friends – real friends. Sure, he could make acquaintances with the best of them, but he'd never really been close with anyone _other_ than Gus, and to his detriment, he'd been notoriously jealous when his associate's attention had drifted elsewhere, even as a child. This not-quite lone wolf mentality was part of the reason he'd had his daredevil phase back in '89 and _all_ of the reason why he had made the horrible decision to frost his tips in '01, having been separated from the good advice Gus would have given had he been around and desperate for his companionship both times.

Really, lacking attention Gus provided was probably the reason he'd done a whole host of stupid things throughout the years. Had he the patience and the pen-name, he probably could've written a book about it.

Or at least a really amusing list.

The thing was, as friendly as Shawn came across, he had always found it difficult to connect with people. _Really_ connect with people.

Between the battery of personality quirks that his father had fostered onto him and the fact that Big Bad Burton Guster had filled his friend quota early on, Shawn had often found himself with a slight disconnect. Struggling to remember how normal people would act and coasting on the bare minimum just to get by, he found himself easily frustrated by his deficiencies and far too often concluded that, with other people at least, the attempt just wasn't worth it.

Once his mother had moved out, he didn't even bother trying anymore. If his existence was an inconvenience to the world, well… the world could just go fuck itself for making him this way. Take him or leave him, it didn't matter - he wasn't going to be bothered by other people's opinions of him any more. They were none of his damn business. And if someone didn't like it? That was their problem.

Shawn sucked harder on his straw, a stuck strawberry giving him grief.

 _Gus would never betray me. Not for any less than a cool half mill., or a sweet new pair of Pumas, anyhow,_ he mused as he poked at the concoction in his cup, glad he knew where the man's loyalties lie. _And I'm sure Dad would have my back as soon as I learned whatever lesson he thought I needed to learn from whatever debacle I managed to stumble my way into. Though, knowing him, he'd still make me pay for the help somehow._

Shawn rolled his eyes at the thought and sighed.

 _As long as I don't have to build another damn doghouse…_

Really though, he wondered, who else did he have that he could trust?

He knew Chief Vick kept him on because she couldn't afford not to, the cost of his retainer far less than that of the face she would lose were his many cases left unsolved. Not to say that Lassie and his police posse _couldn't_ have solved them – _well, not the one with the dinosaur, that's for sure –_ but they certainly wouldn't have done so as quickly, or with as much panache. So, providing he kept his numbers up and the laws he broke in the process to himself, he knew that he could generally count on the Police Chief to have his back though.

She was a smart one, that Chief Vick, and he loved the fact that she knew how and when to play dumb just as well as he did.

Of course, there was also Juliet. When she wasn't acting the sexy boss-lady like she had done today, Shawn sometimes wondered if Jules was hiding a double life as the treasurer of the Shawn Spencer Fan Club. (And if that wasn't a thing he needed to tell Gus to get on that, lickety-split!) Though the flirting between them came naturally to both, Shawn wouldn't have been surprised to find that O'Hara was completely unaware that she did it as often as she did.

Badass though she was, Jules had that sweet, innocent vibe about her, and he always appreciated the fact that she not only had his back but was usually pretty vocal about it. Jules was always the first to call when they needed his help, insisting to her partner that he wasn't full of shit, and her belief in him made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside, if only slightly guilty over all the lies. if he If he hadn't been afraid he'd get shin-kicked for it, Shawn would consider calling her his number one fan. But, Jules wore pointy-toed shoes and was a total powerhouse, so instead he just tried to show his gratitude where he could.

And then there was Lassie.

 _Oh, Lassie..._

Shawn paused, a twinkle in his eye as he wondered if Lassie thought he was Harrison Ford sexy.

Not Harrison Ford _now_ , obviously - if Lassie thought Shawn looked that old, he needed to get those beautiful blue peepers checked out, STAT.

But maybe a young Harrison Ford, like in Star Wars. Or Blade Runner.

 _No – Raiders! Yeah, that's it! I bet he thinks I'm Indiana Jones sexy. Downright smoldering, even._

Lassiter didn't know it, but Shawn had caught him staring during their treasure-hunting, fraud-finding, mercenary-dodging adventure. He'd been overjoyed to see him, expecting the detective to be sporting an irritated face, but had seen a quickly stifled nevertheless lusty look of intrigue in his eyes as he'd pulled in guns-a-blazin' instead.

Crouched behind his cruiser, Lassie's presence saving Shawn's skin, he'd clearly been dying to see if the psychic had done the impossible by finding Bouchard's gold... and catch the bad guys, of course. And the fact that he had? It had made Lassie's eyes widen in both arousal and surprise, the cop unable to hide the greed in his gaze.

Curiouser and curiouser.

 _Yeah, he's totally got the hots for me._

And Shawn _had_ found Bouchard's gold - that was the crazy thing!

After all of Jack's stories and adventures, after his many tall tales... Shawn never for a second believed that this was the one that would pan out. Not after everything they'd been through. Not with the story being so well-known and the gold so hard to find. So, when he _did_ find the treasure, Shawn not only forgot to breathe, he forgot that he even knew how.

Time had frozen; for a fraction of a second, his heart stilled in his chest, blood roaring in his ears as he struggled to stay on his feet.

He couldn't believe how scared he was; how exhilarated.

Kind of like when he dared Lassie to kiss him.

 _Exactly_ like when he dared Lassie to kiss him.

Shawn had no idea why he kept doing stupid stuff like that.

 _Was I your first sweet man kiss?_ he chuckled, surprised by how much he wanted it to be true. Hell, he'd give all the gold in his pocket for an ounce of proof he was the first to besmirch the stodgy man with smoochies. It wasn't like Lassiter went around shoving his tongue in other men's mouths often (if ever), after all - but if it _were_ true, it would give Shawn a reason to feel slightly more than special.

It would give him hope.

 _Maybe I should ask him,_ he thought.

 _…if I want to get shot._

He wondered why Lassie had taken him up on the dare.

Never in a million years had he thought that Lassiter would do it. The detective's reticence was a large part of why Shawn threw himself at the older man in the first place. His lewd behavior winding the detective up tighter than a two-dollar timepiece, Shawn found incredibly it entertaining to watch. It wasn't quite the amazing feat Dutch the Clutch could perform, of course, but it _was_ something Shawn thought made him a daredevil nonetheless, unleashing Lassie's ire a deliciously terrible thing to behold.

It had been Shawn's favorite form of courting danger for the longest time; ever since he had met the man, as a matter of fact. Hell, half the reason he had opened Psych was to create a legitimate excuse to continue toying with the detective, determined to one day climb the lissome man like he was Mt. Lassiter, if only he could find himself a qualified Sherpa.

With no idea why fucking with the fine Irishman made his adrenaline surge, Shawn loved to chase the feeling, nonetheless, likening it to a drug addiction he'd never wanted nor had.

There was just something so pure about the crackle of energy between them whenever Lassie caught the psychic in his sights, his gaze electrifying and always promising something more.

So, Shawn was secretly thrilled when things intensified, the heat between them bordering on palpable as the others remained unaware of the attraction they shared. He recalled being pinned under the cop's piercing blue glare, the fine hairs on his arms rising as he thought of how badly he wanted the feeling of Lassiter's body pressed hard against his own in the moment before it had happened.

The fine hairs on his arms rising _now._

Because it had **_actually_** happened.

Shawn shivered, the memory washing over him in ways he wished it wouldn't. Not in public, anyhow.

 _What is it about my dearest detective that tickles me so?_ he wondered, blinking as the thought caught him off-guard. _Wait - why do I even care? Why am I even thinking about this?_

It wasn't like Shawn had given any _other_ relationship in his life this much consideration, romantic _or_ platonic. Having learned firsthand from his parents failure that putting too much of yourself into one just resulted in your being hurt, he had never allowed himself to get close enough to care, and watching them – _misunderstanding them_ – had resulted in a sad series of events that had set precedent for a pattern of destructive dating habits and emotional detachment that he'd inadvertently followed throughout his entire adult life. Taking far too long to get to a point where he was ready, willing, or able to admit that these were problems he not only had but had to fix, he had barely just begun.

 _And where has that gotten me?_ he asked himself, fighting the forlorn feeling that began to creep its way in. _Sitting alone in a Red Robin's waiting for my daddy to pick me up from my latest adventure._

It made Shawn wonder if he was on the right track. His mother had recently chastised him about cancelling on yet _another_ first date, as if it weren't her fault and like he wasn't aware of his own romantic encumbrances. He was aware. He was more than aware. He could fill a book with how aware he was of his suckitude in the dating department, sometimes quite literally.

It was just hard (also sometimes quite literally) because it seemed like no matter what he did, he was never able to find what he was looking for. Not that he really knew what that was in the first place. He should have tried discussing it with his mother while she'd been there, he knew, but he'd been too distracted - first frustrated with his father and then sideswiped by her revelation. So, he'd missed his chance, it being a conversation he wasn't really wanting to have over the phone.

When Madeleine revealed that things in her relationship with Henry hadn't happened the way that Shawn had thought they had, it threw him for a loop. He didn't know how to process it, nor what to think, and he certainly had no idea what it meant to the rest of his life. If he had been stupidly basing his life choices on what had happened between the two of them, after all, didn't that mean that he needed to take this new information into account? Didn't it meant that every choice he had made, every action he had taken up to that point, needed strong reassessment?

What it did mean for sure was that he had no real-life examples anymore, though he was pretty sure he shouldn't be looking to them for a life pattern to follow any longer, anyhow.

In fact, he probably should have stopped long ago - but since they were the only real option he had, they would have to do.

 _I mean… they have a better relationship now than they did the last few years they were together,_ his questioning conscience piped in, small and uncertain from lack of use. _Doesn't that mean that there's still something good to get out of every relationship, even if it fails?_

That might be true. Shawn hadn't seen his father act like this in... ever.

 _What is failure anyway? Do you really want to be alone forever? Turn into a lonely old man because you're too afraid to experience something real?_

It changed things, knowing that Henry was still and always had been head over heels for his mother. It was the kind of love that was everlasting, and though Shawn didn't want to admit it, now that he understood it, it was also kind of inspiring. It wouldn't change a thing between the two men, of course – years of therapy wouldn't fix that – but it made him reconsider his approach to romance.

Made him reconsider his approach to life.

 _And if you really want to be a daredevil, what better way to push your luck?_ the little voice chirped, a little less little than it had been before _._ _You're guaranteed to elicit one hell of a reaction, one way or another._

Shawn smiled. There was that perspective thing again, reworking rough ideas into thoughts he could easily digest.

 _Sonofabitch. Am I seriously going to pursue Lassiepants?_

 _Really truly? Honest to God? Even if it means I get my pretty face punched in?_

Why, yes.

Yes, he was.

Right after his daddy came to pick him up, of course.


	5. You Give Love A Bad Name

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **You Give Love A Bad Name**

 _ ***This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 5: Disco Didn't Die, It Was Murdered!**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi**_

* * *

Carlton hated to owe O'Hara, but he wasn't about to give into his partner that easily.

Thank God that there was always somebody on the force like McNab, eager for a case, happy to help, and completely unaware that the boring work was being foisted off onto him. Carlton would feel bad about doing so were it not for the fact that he believed all junior detectives had to start somewhere; the top not being that place. He had done it, his Head Detective before him, and _his_ Head Detective before _him_ , so really, giving McNab the extra work wasn't a hindrance. He was _helping._ Besides, why should either he or O'Hara waste their talents on something as tedious as fraudulent permits at a plastics factory when there was an international diamond smuggling ring to be brought down?

Carlton had cracked a bottle as soon as he'd gotten home, even before taking his holster off, and now sat sipping his well-earned drink, leaning against the back of his couch while trying to figure out how in the blue hell he and O'Hara had managed to track the wrong truck. The ice clinked against the patterned glass as he tossed the last of it back, a rogue cube hitting him in the face and causing him to curse as it smashed into the tip of his nose. Of all his fun new lacerations, the small chunk missing from above his left nostril was his least favorite; hurting like hell even without the extra provocation, it was guaranteed to take forever to heal, and he was not a patient man.

 _That's what I get for trying to force things to go my way,_ the cop thought, prodding with a finger to see if he'd split the tip back open. _I really should've known better._

If only he had realized that before taking over.

Carlton wished he believed in karma; had he, it would have been just the thing to blame for the events that had caused his day to sour so quickly. Really, though, he knew he should be counting his blessings, glad that O'Hara had forgiven him for upchucking in her hair because the last thing he needed to deal with was a partner with a grudge. It had happened before, two partners prior, and if he could avoid that type of drama again, he'd pretty much do anything, stressful as it had been.

Thank God Juliet was the kind of woman who wouldn't begrudge him for something so inconsequential, disgusting though it may have been.

He'd never forgive Spencer for the god-awful purple paisley shirt he'd been wearing, though. He didn't know _what_ the man had been thinking, if he'd even bothered to think before getting dressed at all. The consultant looked like he'd been caught in a time-warp and Carlton wished that both it and the '70's inspired, jive-talking porn star voice Spencer had affected were illegal.

And not just because he wanted to see the man strung up in chains.

(Which he did, though it wasn't something he wanted to think about.)

Thankfully, the threat of a bomb had been enough to shock the psychic back into normalcy – or at least whatever passed for it in Spencer's world - and the pseudo-psychic dropped the schtick quick, imminent death bringing him back to reality.

Having trouble coming to terms with the fact that the wunderkind had solved yet _another_ of his cases, Carlton sighed as he replayed the day in his mind. How Spencer had managed to figure out and finish off what his father had started so many years before was beyond him, and the cop found it frustrating enough to pour himself a second glass as he considered it.

It was astounding how the two Spencers could be so different yet inherently the same – not that the detective would deign to mention it to either, unwilling to bear the brunt of verbal abuse that was bound to come with the suggestion.

 _Like father, like son,_ he thought as he took another sip of his Scotch. _Although Henry never would have pulled that bone-headed stunt with the bomb..._

Carlton could have killed Spencer in that moment.

As a matter of fact, with less than fifteen seconds to spare, he had sworn that he would do exactly that should they manage to avoid detonation. And survive they had, Spencer clearly having a horseshoe up his ass. The little bastard had gotten lucky yet again, and due to the nearby police presence, had also managed to avoid a good throttling because it would be a blight on the department should their Head Detective be indicted for first-degree murder. So, Carlton had to find another way to punish the show-off for the near-death experience he'd inadvertently caused.

It had appeared like magic, almost like a gift from the gods.

When the reporter from earlier in the week had walked in asking for their most frequent consultant, Lassiter couldn't believe the opportunity he'd been handed, and he looked to his partner before responding, raising an eyebrow and gauging her reaction to Spencer's name.

Though she hadn't looked it during the almost-explosion, O'Hara had been mad as hell. More pissed than he'd known possible, Carlton had let her drive back to the precinct, figuring it would help her blow off some steam. Though it had curtailed her anger a tad, he had still been subjected to an earful on the way, the epithets spewing from his partner's mouth something he found more than amusing. But, keeping silent all the while, he'd nodded his head in all the right places while the wound-up woman fumed, uncharacteristically frustrated and half a step away from losing it.

Surprised she even knew half the words she was using, Carlton had stifled a smirk and listened to O'Hara rage, enjoying her tirade as she went off about Shawn's impulsiveness, impetuousness, and outright stupidity, his grin harder to subdue when she asked him exactly how far he'd thought Shawn's head was lodged up his ass. Carlton agreed with everything she'd ranted about, of course, but having been around the block a time or two and aware that anything he said was likely to keep O'Hara riled up longer than he was willing to deal with, he'd also been smart enough to avoid having to answer, simply smiling and nodding where he could.

So, when the writer asked them if they had any insights they were willing to share while awaiting Spencer's arrival, it wasn't that he and his partner had colluded to steal the interview out from under the man, it just so happened that it had happened naturally. O'Hara was still seething, and Carlton would have been a fool to let the opportunity slide, knowing no better way to get retribution than by popping the psychic's inflated ego like a balloon.

He'd seen Shawn's face fall as he rounded the corner, the deflation evident as the younger man took in the scene before him. There'd been a second he'd felt remorse at being able to take Spencer down a peg or two, but his pride had quickly stepped in to push his empathy aside. Knocking Spencer off his high-horse was a thing that Carlton felt was both necessary and a long time coming, so he refused to feel bad for something he believed the fraud had earned.

Besides, on top getting under Shawn's skin for once instead of the other way around, he was glad to see that the act of one-upsmanship seemed to have helped stabilize things between them again.

Excusing the marmoset mix-up, work had been wonderful the last little while; coupled with the fact that he'd had to deal with little in the way of Psych shenanigans, morale was up, and cases were being solved, which seemed to be a thing that boded well. And the few instances in which he _had_ been forced into dealing with the psychic? Well, their conversations had reverted to the same infantile back and forth they had begun with, which, although still undesired, was closer to Carlton's comfort zone than the alternative had been.

Carlton had had a bit of trepidation attached to every interaction prior to the shift back to normalcy, living with the fear that the psychic would let slip that they'd locked lips. But Spencer hadn't made an outright lewd comment to him in weeks.

It was almost mind-boggling.

Carlton knew he should be enthused, the lack of inconsideration being exactly what he had hoped for, but he'd been too thrown by the lack of lechery to enjoy it, unsure of what it meant or what his next move should be, if any. Instead, it felt like living with the Sword of Damocles over his head – both unsettling and unwanted. In his heart of hearts, Carlton hoped that - though unlikely as a goose shitting gold - the silence meant their encounter had been forgotten, but while he didn't know what its significance was, he did know Spencer, which meant there was no way it was something good.

Without meaning to, Carlton had spent the last few years studying the man, determining that Spencer getting quiet meant that he was thinking - _really thinking -_ and the SPBD's Head Detective had found those moments were when the psychic was the most dangerous.

Proving time and time again that he had almost no self-control, Shawn drove Carlton batty; self-control being something he prided himself on. His new therapist had even suggested that he was too reticent in certain areas of his life, self-control becoming an excuse to avoid things that brought about discomfort. It was almost like he was too afraid to discover himself, she had said, hitting a little close to home. However, because she was the first of five therapists who didn't pussyfoot around the facts, he was willing to listen to whatever else she might have to say, regardless of how much he might dislike her message.

It would just take a while before her words sunk in, is all.

He had made the first steps with Spencer's mother, true, but since then had been frozen with inaction, unable to process due to thoughts rooted in fear. Because if second base with the department's most annoying advisor was the result of discovering that his sexuality as something other than straight, how could Carlton manage to live life as he had been before?

Or figure out what not doing so would mean for him?

Had he just been projecting onto Spencer because the psychic was an admittedly intelligent, moderately attractive male in close proximity to his libido?

Or was it Spencer himself that made his heart skip a beat?

 _Even if I did want to sleep with a man,_ Carlton began to brood, staring at his Scotch, _it certainly wouldn't be Shawn 'No Way He's A Psychic' Spencer._

But, save for recently, a particularly charged dynamic had always existed between the pair - and now that it was gone, Carlton found he missed it more than he should.

The detective would never describe himself as a loner, per se, but he did have to admit to being picky about who he found worth spending his time with. And none of the individuals on his pre-approved list were able to recreate the energy that he and Shawn shared. Discovering this forced him to come to terms with the fact that other than the plucky pseudo-psychic, few people in his life ever touched him, all too intimidated to breach the realm of the physical.

Then there was Spencer, who acted as if Carlton's personal space was his own.

As aggravating as he often found the man, Carlton had begun to comprehend how deeply Shawn's touch affected him. It was a sensation that left him wanting more, one that caused exponential confusion. The man was the exact opposite of what he looked for in a partner - or even a friend - and Carlton had trouble comprehending what it was that made him want the friction of the fake's fingertips on his skin, logic telling him that it was the last thing he should desire.

He wasn't _that_ lonely, was he?

It couldn't be. Spencer must have hypnotized him somehow.

Except that Carlton couldn't be hypnotized, a fact he usually wore with pride but now only offered up frustration. Because if it wasn't that, it could only mean one other thing - a thing he didn't want to admit, even to himself.

Carlton was a thinker, an over-thinker even, postulating problems to death and back again. He was also pretty sure that Spencer, on the other hand, never bothered to think outside of the moment he was living in. So how could they possibly be compatible, having such an important difference between them?

 _Maybe that's why he's the self-proclaimed_ _King of First Dates,_ the cop thought, which, in his opinion, wasn't really something to brag about at all.

You could be anybody on a first date, Carlton knew; sometimes nervous, sometimes excited, or sometimes simply trying too hard, rarely did a person wind up being themselves. _He_ was horrible at first dates, refusing to be anything _but_ himself, no matter how off-putting some people might find him. His last few dates were the perfect example of that, each leaving quicker and more creatively than the last.

Spencer, on the other hand… well, he could easily imagine Spencer talking himself up, exacerbating already unbelievable tales in order to get some tail. Spencer was a wordsmith extraordinaire, and to his chagrin, Carlton had found himself following along with the psychic's stories on more than one occasion, fully well knowing he was full of crap but still enthralled by the magic coming from his mouth anyhow.

 _Maybe he's bad in the sack,_ he mused, _and that's why he can't get past the first date. Sure, he knows how to smooth-talk his way up a skirt, but I'll bet he can't figure out what to do once he gets there._

No - even to himself he didn't think that was true… especially if he was extrapolating on the kiss they had shared, Shawn's tongue having expertly worked at manipulating him into the mess he'd become.

Much to Carlton's dismay, their single kiss had a visceral effect on him, and though he was doing his damnedest to deny it, had awoken parts of him he thought were dormant.

Kicking his feet up onto the cushions and trying but failing to relax, he wondered what it was that had caused him to snap and do something so out of character.

Spencer had provoked him so many times before that ignoring him should have been effortless, every other phrase out of the man's mouth a proposition. However, when it had happened in the hall at the precinct, it had been more of a request than it had been a taunt - and it wasn't the request itself, but the restrained need in the man's voice that the detective had sensed. Spencer's words were mocking, but want had been written all over his face, somehow superseding Carlton's ingrained sensibilities. So, his self-restraint had been thrown out the window, the general distaste he had for the man ignored the second his skin had started to tingle.

What the hell was it about the man that had him feeling this way?

The Head Detective always considered the 'psychic' a fraud, though he generally overlooked the fact unless he was throwing it in Spencer's face, the game between them having gone on so long that it had morphed from being the elephant in the room into a piece of really ugly old well-worn furniture. So, if it wasn't the obvious irritants at play, what was it then, that drove him insane?

Was it Spencer's blatant refusal to follow rules - that he'd chew his own foot off before he'd bend to societies expectations of him? That he'd somehow managed to avoid the pressure to find his place and stay there like a good little boy, as Carlton himself had been trained to do?

Could it be Shawn's rejection of the labels that the world tried to shackle him with? The idea that nothing and no one could pin him in place?

Or was it that Spencer lived like he had no limitations – like every day was his last and he determined to experience it as a free man, regardless the cost?

Maybe it was that for a single moment - for the first time in Carlton's life if he were being honest with himself - he had been made to feel the same?

The man was a disease eating away at him, slowly but surely, and Carlton had come to a point where he almost welcomed it. He'd been thinking of his encounter with Spencer at the reunion for weeks now - thinking of their hallway rendezvous even longer - and it didn't matter how religiously he practiced self-castigation; the thoughts just grew stronger, each taking up residence in his head so intently that he wished he could serve his brain an eviction notice.

Carlton's newfound pansexuality had barely been an hour revealed before Spencer had practically dry-humped his way into his lap, making an already hard situation that much harder; Spencer making him feel like he never had. And no matter how much he denied it, Carlton was going to want to experience that again, which was going to cause one hell of a problem.

He wanted the man, he realized. Almost desperately.

But he didn't _want_ to want the man, the feeling too risky, with too little reward.

The possibility that Spencer had played him for a fool quite likely, the chance of humiliation was too high for Carlton, and he wouldn't put it past the man to be screwing with him as a form of cheap entertainment. Or perhaps Shawn hadn't, and the desire was reciprocal.

What then? Was that not worse?

What was Carlton supposed to do - attempt a relationship with the man he spent half his week wanting to throttle? Or were they supposed to collide in incredibly intense but ultimately meaningless sex?

Could sex with Spencer even _be_ possible? _Or_ meaningful?

More importantly, did he want it to be?

The cop blanched at the thought, aroused and terrified as the idea flitted through his mind, startled to find himself slipping towards thoughts of debauchery. He'd spent years avoiding dalliances with devils like Spencer, too afraid of getting hurt to take the risk and dive headfirst into passion. So, what the hell was he doing now?

Attempting to focus, he shook his head, not sure which he considered worse _._

His shrink would tell him to talk to the man, a discussion which guaranteed he'd gain some insight, though the idea of doing so made him sick to his stomach. Carlton would rather shoot himself in the face then talk to Spencer about _feelings_. But, as he continued to consider the situation, the idea of a one-night stand refused to leave his mind, and he found himself pouring another glass of Scotch, surprised to find he had already finished the last.

 _Maybe I should just get it out of my system once and for all,_ he thought, a grim smile on his face as he resigned himself to the idea. _Bang it out and be done with the bastard, once and for all._

Carlton looked at his glass intently and sighed, worried about what Shawn would say were he to bring it up - not a happy thought.

 _I guess I'll just have to keep his mouth too busy to talk,_ he considered, slamming the contents of his tumbler in a single swallow.

He was Head Detective for a reason after all, and he chuckled, finally realizing that.

And he was a Head Detective who had just the plan.

A man with a plan for action.


	6. Take Me Home Tonight & Just Like Heaven

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Take Me Home Tonight/Just Like Heaven**

 _ ***This chapter takes place just before season 3 episode 6: There Might Be Blood (w/ dialogue stolen from S7 episode 01)**_

 _ **** The accompanying songs are Take Me Home Tonight by Eddie Money and Just Like Heaven by the Cure**_

* * *

"Lassie, why'd you kiss me?"

The detective was startled.

This was not how he expected things to go, and it certainly wasn't part of his plan. Hell, he wasn't even sure he _had_ a plan anymore, the one he'd concocted while half-cut being too ridiculous to follow through with now he'd sobered up and knocked some sense into himself.

He didn't know what he was thinking, considering such things in the first place.

Carlton had been half-ignoring the man in the passenger seat of his car for the better part of ten minutes, not really paying attention, too busy questioning how he'd been roped into driving Spencer home in the first place.

He wasn't even sure why the man had been at the station at all.

There was no reason for it, in between cases as they were, yet there the psychic was, somehow becoming Carlton's responsibility. While he knew there was little likelihood that the drive would occur in silence, he had hoped to get Spencer back before the man ran out of things to babble about and brought up their lip-lock up as a topic of conversation.

It seemed to be a bullet he would be unable to dodge after all.

"In the hallway. When I dared you to," Spencer prompted at his silence.

It took Carlton a remarkable length of time to catch on to what Spencer was quizzing him about. Ridiculous, really, when you consider how much time he had spent thinking of it.

"Why'd you kiss me?" the psychic prodded again.

"I – I don't know," the cop admitted.

"I call bullshit. Don't be a deep-fried jelly donut, Lassie!" Spencer said. "How can you not know why you kissed somebody?"

Carlton shot him a look.

"Maybe I was sleep deprived. Or maybe I was concussed. Who knows? Why are we discussing my grand error in judgment anyway?" he asked, pulling into the Psych office. He'd been rebuffed when he'd asked Spencer where he was staying, and though he had a sneaking suspicion the man was crashing there, he didn't ask, doing his best to avoid getting personal.

"We're here. You can get out now," he said, gesturing to the door.

Spencer ignored him.

"See, when I kissed Abby at the reunion it was because that event had been on my bucket list for like," Shawn paused, counting on his fingers. "Sixteen years."

Carlton looked nonplussed, but the psychic continued.

"Tommy Thompson back in fifth grade, not so much. Gus needed a good distraction, so he could steal his tap shoes back," he said casually. "Good kiss though. Made me consider broadening my horizons."

He looked at the detective, who looked back at him inquisitively.

"Made me wanna kiss boys, Lassie."

Carlton glared at Spencer, unimpressed at being treated like a moron.

"No kidding," he said, his voice as flat as the look on his face before turning sarcastic as he waved. "Bye now."

"When did _you_ know that you wanted to kiss boys?" his unwanted psychic sidekick asked in return, making no movement toward the door.

Carlton blinked and shook his head; begrudgingly accepting that he was going to be there a while, he turned the key in the ignition, the car going from idling to off.

"I am _not_ having this conversation with you," he replied, aware they were wading into uncomfortable conversational territory and trying to steer the topic elsewhere. "What is wrong with you? Why can't you just drop it?"

"Aha! So, you do admit to wanting to kiss boys then! Well, at your age, men, hopefully..."

"I'm not – I didn't..." Carlton ran a hand through his hair and sighed, flustered. "Ah, fuck it!"

"Ohh, it's a recent thing then," Spencer mused, a Cheshire cat smile stretched across his face. "Maybe you really _don't_ know why you're gay for me."

Carlton scowled, turning in the seat to face him.

"You're the one who dared me to. What the hell was _that_ about, Spencer?" he asked, wishing the man would leave, but needing to know the answer. It had been eating at him for what seemed like eons, and if he had to sacrifice a few more moments and a bit of dignity to get it, well then so be it.

Spencer grinned, poking him in the shoulder as he replied, "Silly Lassie! I've told you how sexy you are when you're scowling at me -"

Carlton threw his hands up in frustration, exasperated with the runaround.

"More provocation," he exclaimed. "Harassment at its finest!"

Shawn just laughed.

"It's not my fault you're so easily riled up," the psychic shrugged casually, glancing at the detective as he unbuckled his seatbelt, making Carlton hope an exit was imminent. "Besides, it's a total turn-on when you're all domineering, Lassiepants."

Carlton paled, and looking up to see the wan expression on his face, Shawn quickly continued.

"Plus, you were stressed, I was stressed, we were all alone -"

"A hallway at the precinct is not _alone_ , Spencer. It's a semi-public place! It's my workplace as a matter of fact!" the detective interrupted.

"Ehh, I've heard it both ways," Spencer said, his smile sheepish as he shifted in place, obviously nowhere near ready to leave. "Anyway, what better cure for the moody blues than sucking face? It always puts a pep in _my_ step."

Wondering how the conversation could get any worse, Carlton dropped his head to his chest, knowing that with his track record, it was bound to.

"Y'know," Spencer smiled, leaning forward just a little, his grin growing wicked, "you look a little stressed right now."

"Gee, I wonder why?" Carlton muttered, his hand resting over his brow as he asked himself again how he'd gotten suckered into the situation.

"Anything I can do to help with that?" the psychic asked, smile growing wider.

"Besides shutting up and getting out, you mean?" Carlton replied, his lips pressed firmly into a thin line. He didn't know why, but he was struggling to avoid betraying himself, the confusing feelings he had for the man at his side overwhelming. He'd come thinking that he was prepared for anything, but it turned out that when Spencer was involved, he was ready for absolutely nothing at all.

Spencer dropped the smile and stared, the look of solemnity on his face scaring Carlton a little.

"Just because you refuse to be honest with yourself is no reason to lie to _me_ , Lassie."

Carlton stared back, his eyes widening at the insight.

"I don't know what you mean," he fibbed, getting hot under the collar and hating himself for it.

Silence hung in the air as Shawn just glared.

"I mean I see the way you look at me when you don't think anyone is paying attention," Spencer said, gaze softening after an agonizingly long moment.

Carlton raised his eyebrows, still trying to keep up the charade.

"With great distaste?"

Shawn laughed in response.

"Just the opposite. Like you want a little taste, or like maybe a little taste wasn't quite enough," he whispered, his words sending chills up Carlton's spine. "Do you wanna taste me, Lassie?"

The cop coughed, trying to swallow and failing. He knew he shouldn't be surprised by the boldness of Spencer's statement, yet that's exactly what he was. Surprised and aroused. He felt his heart beat a staccato rhythm in his chest, all of the blood in his body seeming to surge toward his groin upon hearing the psychic's words; though he couldn't comprehend it, more than anything did he want a second round with this man.

 _This man,_ the one who aggravated him more than any other.

Carlton had fantasized about it. Multiple times.

He had pictured the moment over and over, their shared kiss replaying in his head like Memorex. His mind had picked up where reality had left off, creating its own deliciously dirty dreams about his clever co-worker. But, although actuality was certain to surpass his wildest expectations, he was unwilling to act if it meant having to admit his growing attraction for the charlatan in the seat next to his, burning desire be damned.

He just couldn't chance it, not when he didn't know what his own feelings were yet.

"Not answering isn't a no, Lassie," Shawn said, brazenly reaching past the steering wheel to unbuckle the detective, having finished un-strapping himself. Carlton just looked down dumbly, unable to stop him and unsure if he wanted to. "And you might be trying to deny your desire to strip me naked and have your naughty, naughty way with me..."

Spencer leaned over Carlton's lap, twisting to reach the lever to shift the driver's seat back, taking the SBPD's Head Detective by surprise. "But my psychic-ness will trump your B.S. every time."

"Wha – what are you doing, Spencer?" Lassiter asked, the answer quickly becoming evident when Shawn crawled into his lap.

"You might act like you hate me in public, Lassie," he continued, placing a soft kiss against the side of Carlton's jaw, following with a second below his earlobe once he realized he hadn't been rebuffed. His arms wrapped around the cop's neck as he continued, the feeling causing Carlton to tingle. "But I know you don't feel that way when we're in private. I have proof, in fact; a substantiated claim!"

"How do you know?" Carlton inquired, his breath husky as he found his fingers tracing the other man's ribcage at his own behest, and he blushed when he felt Shawn better settle into his lap to nip and kiss along the skin of his neck. He considered teasing at the sides of the plaid shirt Shawn wore only briefly, beside himself in agony over his need to touch the skin that lay just beneath and wondering where the hell it had come from.

How they'd gotten to this point so fast.

"What proof? What claim do you have?" he asked, a white-knuckle grip on his armrest to stop himself.

"This one," Shawn chuckled, nuzzling into the warm hollow of Carlton's throat. "I claim this lap in the name of Shawn Spencer!" he declared. "I shall call it New Spencer - no, Spencertopia!"

"Seriously?" Carlton said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are _not_ naming my crotch, Spencer."

"We'll see about that," Shawn smirked, and rolled his hips.

Carlton bit his lower lip, doing his best to resist reacting.

"You haven't tossed me off or threatened to shoot me yet, so that has to mean something, right?" Spencer paused, that grin of his growing salacious as he ground down, an act Carlton found disconcerting. "Mind you, if you plan on tossing me off," Shawn continued, wiggling his eyebrows as lecherously as he was his ass, "I'm all for it. If you've got a thing against exhibitionism, though, then I'm not sure your car is the best place -"

Carlton groaned, the needling and warm body atop his both getting to him.

"Shut up, Spencer," he ordered, teeth clenched so tightly it came out as a growl.

"Or what, Lassie?" Shawn challenged, running a finger along Carlton's jaw in response. "No wall to throw me up against this time. Gonna have to get creative if you wanna manhandle me again."

Carlton laughed, watching the man's face grow inquisitive, the psychic clearly forgetting who he was dealing with.

"Spencer," he said, wearing a wicked grin of his own, all sense of reason slipping from his grasp. "You forget that I'm professionally trained on how to manhandle people."

He slid his hand up the psychic's back and grabbed Shawn by the neck, feeling the fine hairs there stand on end as he pulled the man forward, bringing them face to face. Shawn shuddered, and Carlton drank it in, smile almost animalistic, his eyes flashing like a hunter stalking its prey.

"And you barely qualify as people. Now shut your slutty little mouth before I do it for you."

* * *

Shawn's heart skipped a beat and he felt it caught in his throat, daring him to continue his taunting.

Daring him to make Lassie make the threatened move.

God, he hoped Lassie made the move.

He licked his lips in anticipation and watched as the detective's gaze followed the motion.

"What if I don't want to?" he asked, bringing as much brattiness into the statement as he could manage. "What if I don't believe you will? What if I think you're just a big. fat. chicken?" he said, punctuating each word with a poke to the chest.

Something snapped; he could see it in Lassiter's eyes, and it made the knot in Shawn's stomach - the one that had begun as a bundle of nerves - just _ache_ with arousal.

 _It's hot in here. Is it hot in here all of a sudden?_

The windows misted up, the heat from their bodies and barbs filling the car with fog, making Shawn feel like Kate Winslet in that crappy 90's disaster movie – the one where she boned DiCaprio in a car on a not yet sinking boat. Too distracted by the detective beneath him to realize both Lassie's ride and radio were off, he wouldn't be surprised if it's theme started playing, or maybe Duran Duran's Hungry Like the Wolf, both songs suiting the mood.

 _Yeah, that's more like it,_ he thought, his breath growing heavy as he held the cop's gaze, refusing to be the one to break first _._

Lassie looked ready to devour him, and it made his blood _sizzle_ , the spark between them practically palpable.

"Cause I -"

The cop came unglued, abandoning his inner turmoil long enough for his primal instinct to kick in, giving the psychic exactly what he wanted. He gripped Shawn by the hair, _hard_ , and Shawn whimpered, his body bowing forward, a mixture of pleasure and pain washing over him.

He moaned, breath raw and ragged, and though his hair always a thing he'd cared about before, he was completely unbothered by Carlton royally fucking up his expertly styled 'do, the sensations along his scalp overriding any protest he may have made.

"I said shut it, Spencer," Lassiter snarled, diving for Shawn's slightly trembling lips. "Do something useful with your mouth for once."

Shawn had but a moment to think before they collided with a clash of teeth, so intent on connecting that they threw themselves into each other with careless abandon. He knew Lassie would be the one to break first, but never could he have imagined it would be like this, the man so dominant from such a submissive position. It made him almost want to weep, so overwhelmed and exhilarated was he.

He was also surprised he still had the use of his hands, and he intended to use them while he still had the chance. Pulling Carlton in by his tie, he loosened it with quick fingers, slipping it from the man's shoulders and tossing it on the seat beside them so it wouldn't get lost. He ground his hips in time with each sloppy kiss, doing his best to melt in to the man with clothes still on, constrained flesh rubbing together through far too much fabric, causing the detective to press upon Shawn's wanting mouth.

He moaned, his senses set to high power.

 _More._

He wanted more.

And he was willing to do literally anything to get it.

* * *

Carlton groaned.

Hadn't it just been days ago that he'd been castigating himself for what he assumed was an unhealthy infatuation?

But how could something so bad feel _so good_?

He tried to get his brain back on track, the thought flitting about like an annoying mosquito on a hot summer's day, but every time he attempted a train of coherent thought, it would be disrupted by a sound or sensation that made his mind wander. He soon forgot that he had considered protesting at all, only able to focus on the pressure of the suddenly too tight pants against his straining erection, Shawn's fingers running through his chest hair while his body molded into his.

Now the psychic's prior comment about sternum bush made sense. It wasn't something _women_ would prefer but very clearly something Spencer was fond of himself.

Carlton chuckled, amused at the revelation and he slowed a moment; his thoughts finally catching onto something of relevance, he tore his lips away. It was an act Shawn took as an invitation to breathe only briefly before latching his teeth onto one of Carlton's earlobes instead, tugging and teasing him into oblivion.

 _My God, the man is a minx,_ he thought, distracted as heat raced through his veins, the psychic's marvelous mouth moving against him and drawing his attention away.

Carlton groaned again, the sound guttural and needy.

Spencer, pulling away at the sound, just smiled.

* * *

Shawn popped open the first few buttons on Lassiter's starch-white shirt, sliding his hand past the collar to play with what he found beneath. He loved how soft Lassie's chest hair was - loved that even though he was perpetually single, he still took good care of himself, almost as if it were a point of pride.

He loved how the dark strands swirled across the man's chest.

Loved how they whorled lightly around his nipple.

Loved the soft gasp he heard when he flicked it gently.

But it was the look of satisfaction sketched across the man's face he loved most, though.

Needing to touch as much of the detective as he possibly could, Shawn pressed himself in flush, trying to meld their flesh together by force. He titled the cop's face to angle his own, lustily licking at Lassiter's lip as he reached for the recliner handle again, adjusting the seat to better slide down Carlton's body, his lips latching onto the tender nubbin of flesh he knew would drive the man mad. Hop-skipping kisses down the man's ribcage, heading towards his treasure trail, Shawn dragged his denim-clad erection across Lassie's own, and the detective groaned, his hands clutching tighter at the man atop him.

"God, Lassie," Shawn mumbled, his mouth pressing against warm skin and his mind wandering as he tried to figure out how he was going to remove the cop's many layers of clothing in such a confined space.

"If I knew you were gonna feel this good I would've done this years ago."

* * *

 _Fuck,_ Carlton thought, pleading with his brain to win the battle it fought against his body, the sensations sending shocks up his spine. _Fuck - this means something! You can't be doing this if it means something!_

A cold feeling settled over him, something disconcerting occurring deep inside the detective as he realized that he may not have been playing the game that he thought he'd been playing.

That the game probably didn't even exist, after all.

The thought terrified him.

It couldn't be real.

No. No way.

Looking to see Shawn mere inches away from his zipper, he blanched.

He wasn't someone who had random make-out sessions in cars, he realized.

Nor was he gay – not that it was wrong if the other man was - but even if Carlton had been, he certainly wouldn't be gay with _Spencer._

What the fuck was going on?

Shawn slid back up towards Carlton's face, nipping at his ear, oblivious to his thoughts. His hand strayed lower, though, resting on Carlton's belt buckle as his gaze searched for permission.

He smiled, sensing Carlton's growing panic as uncertainty, and tried to reassure him.

"Next time we do this let's lose the car. The steering wheel is literally the third wheel in this date and I promise that I am way more flexible than I've proven thus far," he quipped, thumb tracing the outline of the tent in Carlton's pants.

* * *

 _Next time._ Carlton froze. _He wants there to be a next time._

He felt himself getting flustered, and quickly followed by angry and confused, he threw his arm over his eyes, attempting to shut out reality and gather his thoughts.

 _He wants there to be a next time. And-he-maybe-had-wanted-this-for-years. He would have done it before. What does that mean?_

Carlton couldn't breathe.

His throat burned as he tried to inhale what felt like thin reedy air.

Hand resting fully on Carlton's cock, Spencer stilled, noticing the detective's eyes were bright and complexion pale.

 _Did he get Lucinda transferred on purpose?_

"Lassie, are you okay?" the psychic asked, arching a brow, his voice sounding low and a little worried.

Carlton swallowed, his throat constricting.

Wild panic shone in his eyes.

"No," he whispered.

He was a detective. Why hadn't he detected this before?

"Spencer, get off," he said, struggling to sit up.

"I, yeah – sure, I mean, I was trying -" Shawn said, pulling away, confused.

It wasn't fast enough.

"SPENCER, GET OFF!" Carlton roared, and grasped him by the shoulder to push him back, his other hand searching for the handle that would send him lurching back into a sitting position.

Spencer hit the steering wheel, a look of shock etched across his face.

"Lassie, what- ?" he asked, rubbing the shoulder Carlton had grabbed.

"I can't do this with you," Carlton replied, his voice laced with a bitterness that took Shawn by surprise.

"Oh... okay. I get it. Wrong time, wrong place," Spencer said, adjusting his askew shirt and sounding disappointed, although ultimately understanding.

The detective breathed deep, his pulse beginning to slow, and he chastised himself for getting into the situation in the first place. He should have known better. He should have seen that Spencer had feelings. That this would always be more than a roll in the hay.

How could he have been so oblivious?

This had to stop, and it had to stop now.

For good.

"I can't do this with you ever."

Spencer's head snapped up, the look on his face both startled and saddened, like he'd just found his dog lying dead in the street. He opened his mouth to speak, but Carlton continued.

"I can't. I won't," he said, eyes avoiding Shawn's crestfallen face. "Not with you. Never with you."

* * *

Shawn was hurt. Really hurt.

He'd been half-expecting something like this to happen, but when it hadn't, he'd lowered his defenses, allowing himself to hope Lassiter felt the same way he did. He'd been overjoyed when Lassie had kissed him, and it seemed that, for the first time ever, the person he wanted to get naked with was also a person he could trust.

He'd had the worst luck with relationships, getting fucked then chucked more times than he could count, and he'd thought that if anyone were going to help him break that pattern, the detective might have been the one.

Apparently, he'd thought wrong.

Shawn had known Lassiter's wall was just as thick as his own, but he was also aware that integrity was high up on the detective's list of favorite things, so upon seeing the cracks in its surface, he couldn't help but to poke and prod until the cop's came crashing down. It had worked, perhaps better than he had expected, and though Lassie had been the one to initiate their sweet kisses both times, he was still clearly having trouble coming to terms with it. It made Shawn sad, the thing he wanted so dearly dangling in front of his face, then being so viciously torn away.

It made him feel toyed with.

It made Lassie look cruel.

"Fuck you, too, Lassiter!" Shawn spat, determined not to be taken advantage of and willing to give just as good as he got. "It's been me twice now, so you can't say shit."

He was surprised Lassie hadn't given himself whiplash with how quickly he had changed his mind. Shawn knew the man had enjoyed himself as much as he had and was willing to bet dishes duty at the office for a week that the man was only freaking on him because he was scared.

It didn't mean he needed to be an asshole about it, though.

"Yeah, well it looks like you're not the only idiot in this car then, are you?" he said coldly. "Get off me and get out. I'm not doing this, Spencer. I'm done with you."

Shawn sneered at him in return, unable to let it go.

It was understandable, this behavior, but having once been the master of deflecting big ol' gay feelings himself, the psychic knew that it was only going to make things worse. He just wished that the Head Detective could understand that he was hurting himself more than he could ever hurt Shawn. And he was hurting Shawn plenty.

"Yeah, well I'm not done with _you_. I don't know why Mr. High-and-Mighty-Head-Detective has suddenly decided to turn into a coward, but that sounds like something _you_ should investigate instead of just pinning the problem on _me_ ," he said, trying to reason with the man. "You're just freaking out because you like me."

"Talking shop isn't a turn-on, Spencer. Get off me," the detective snapped, unable to deny the accusation.

"Nuh-uh," Shawn smirked, refusing to budge. "Deny it all you want, but I know the truth. You care about me."

Lassiter clenched his jaw.

"Get out of the car."

Shawn stuck his tongue out in return.

"Your heart hearts me!"

Lassiter snarled.

"Seriously, get out of the fucking car."

Shawn snuggled close instead, wrapping his arms around Carlton's neck and delighting in pissing the other man off. Now that he knew he wasn't getting any more kissy-face, he was happy to torment Lassie in other ways.

It was only fair, after all, being left hanging as he was.

It wasn't like he was happy about having to take a step back, but he would do it. Not only was consent important to him, he knew that giving Lassiter the space he required would do exactly the opposite of what the detective hoped it would, the memory of this moment percolating as he stewed, his desire intensifying instead of weakening. Shawn had lived it himself, once upon a time, and he knew that nature would take its course, denial doing nothing to help Lassiter's state of mind.

But just because he was willing to tone down the overt sexual advances long enough for Lassie to figure out his lusty feelings were going nowhere did _not_ mean that he was going to stop annoying his favorite officer of the law.

Though Carlton tried to pry him off, Shawn held on tight, deciding that he was going to define the terms of this relationship however he could, for as long as he could. After all, Lassiter had never been the one in charge of their relationship, anyhow - he just didn't know it.

Shawn began to sing, determined to make the detective regret his jerkitude.

"Eeeeverybody loves somebody sometimes..." he crooned, low and melodramatic.

Mouth agape, Lassiter looked at him, too stunned to continue to struggle.

"Are you seriously singing Dean Martin at me right now?" he asked, flabbergasted, his hands dropping to his sides.

Shawn smiled and continued, the look on the detective's face priceless.

"Everybody falls in love someho-"

Throwing his hand over Shawn's mouth in an obvious attempt to stifle him, Lassiter snapped back into motion.

Shawn just licked his palm, a wicked grin scrawled across his face as Lassiter pulled it away in disgust.

"I will throw you off my lap if you don't get off me right now, Spencer," Lassie growled, glowering.

"Alright, alright" Shawn said, opening the driver's side door to make his grand exit. "But if you just said it once aloud, I promise you'd feel free."

* * *

Carlton froze, Spencer's words echoing the thoughts that thundered through his head.

Thoughts he was trying his hardest to stifle.

"I. Love. Yooooooou," Shawn taunted, speaking slowly. "Try it with me, just one time."

He shifted his jacket back onto his shoulder and looked Carlton dead in the eyes, repeating himself.

"I love you, man."

The detective felt like he was going to vomit.

He couldn't deal with this right now. Couldn't deal at all.

He felt himself begin to shake, thoughts and emotions conflicting and crashing into him over and over.

"I looooove you -"

 _No._

 _No._

 _Nuh-uh._

And that was when Shawn found himself sprawled flat on his ass, the cold concrete beneath his spine cushioning him as the cop peeled off into the night, the car door slamming behind him.

Carlton knew he should feel guilty for abandoning his guest. Knew he should feel guilty about the abrupt violence. About the way the evening had begun, and even more-so the way it had ended.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't feel anything.

In fact, he barely heard Spencer call out after him, "Thanks for the ride home!", his ears buzzing as the adrenaline raced through his system.

All he felt was sick.

So, Carlton drove.


	7. Take On Me

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Take On Me**

 ** _*This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 6: There Might Be Blood_**

 ** _** The accompanying song is Take On Me by a-ha_**

* * *

Shawn could not _believe_ Lassie.

More importantly, he couldn't believe how disappointed he was in the whole situation.

He could understand if Lassiter needed to lie to himself for a little while – perhaps pretend their tête-à-tête in the car hadn't occurred – but for him to be chasing someone else so soon afterwards just hurt. That it was Chief Vick's sister made it even more awkward, the fact that the detective was throwing himself in a heterosexual direction not only proof he was living deep in denial, but also just frikkin' _weird_.

Completely unaware his attention was elsewhere, the Chief congratulated Shawn on his most recent case solved. "Well, I gotta say Mr. Spencer – nice work!"

 _What the hell is he doing?_ Shawn thought, too distracted by Santa Barbara's Finest making moon eyes to really hear her.

Juliet chose to ignore Lassiter's antics, reading the heiress to the Bamford fortune her rights instead, but Shawn could tell she thought the senior detective was acting a damn fool, too. If only he could tear into Lassie for his ridiculous behavior, but he knew it would do no good, so resigned himself to the fact that Jules would likely to do it for him later, the woman obviously unimpressed with her partner's unprofessionalism. Shawn just had to stop focusing on Lassiter, he knew it and he was trying, but damned if this didn't make it harder than it had to be.

He also knew that his obsession with the man wasn't healthy, but that didn't seem to matter much. Not when he was forced to watch the cop throw himself at someone else so brazenly, like a kid with a crush that couldn't be kept quiet.

It was just so unlike him, and it didn't help that Shawn was crushing just as hard.

"Thanks, Chief..." he said, catching on to her silence as she awaited his response, his mind still reeling at the sight before him.

 _That woman is horrible!_ he thought. _She's obstinate and arrogant and rude and what the hell is with the googly eyes?!_

He tore his gaze away from Lassiter to look at Gus instead, trying to focus his frustration elsewhere.

"No help to my table!"

* * *

 _This cannot be freaking happening_ , Shawn thought bitterly, biting his tongue _._

Motioning at his buddy to set the basket down, he took a step back, giving the newly reconciled sisters some room. It wasn't that Shawn was being nice – he barely believed in personal space, after all – but that he hadn't yet found a way to excuse himself from the conversation, one of which he had absolutely no desire to hear.

It made him feel off, and his head started to swim, unable to believe he was stuck in such a horrible situation.

If only he could acquire shrinking powers or go temporarily deaf - something useful that could just get him the _hell_ out of here.

Anything so he didn't have to listen to this.

"Ohhh, you don't wanna go there..." the Chief advised her sister.

 _Good ol' Chief Vick!_ his inner voice began to babble, words bleeding together in his head as he shifted in place. _Reliable Chief Vick! Awesomely amazingly wonderful Chief who doesn't even know she's helping jump-start-my-non-relationship-with-the-Head-Detective-she's-warning-her-sister-off-of, Chief Vick!_

"Really, why?" Barbara asked, cocking her head.

 _It's days like this that I love Chief Vick!_

Shawn paused, feeling a little queasy.

 _Really?_ he asked himself. _Am I_ _ **really**_ _this wound up over Lassie throwing his bone in a different direction?_ he mused, surprising himself with the thought.

While he'd enjoyed the smoochies he'd shared with the detective thus far, spectacular kisses didn't tend to be enough to wind him up like a ten-cent tin soldier, and he struggled to understand where the feelings were coming from.

 _What the hell is going on? Why would this be bothering me so-_

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks.

 _Oh._

He didn't know how he hadn't seen it before.

 _Oh, crap._

It should have been obvious.

He should have known.

 _I think I'm starting to fall for the bastard._

Hysterical laughter began to burble up from inside, and he bit his tongue to stop himself, the insanity of the situation sobering him quickly.

"It's just he's a little... ummm... wound up," Vick said, trying to respond as courteously as she could, the awkward question making it almost impossible. "And trust me, you're far better off pursuing somebody else."

 _Ooh, cookies! Good distraction!_

Shawn reached for the box and Gus slapped at his hand. Shooting his pal a look, he snatched it back, reminding himself to retaliate later as the conversation between the siblings behind them turned heated.

"Y'know what, fine! Ask out Lassiter!" the Chief shouted at her sister.

"I will!" her sister shouted back.

"Go ahead!" the elder snapped.

Shawn just stood and stared, hoping to a God he wasn't sure he believed in that the exact opposite would occur.

Furious, Dunlap stormed from the room, and to Shawn's dismay, ran directly into her prey. He stared out the window, his heart sinking like an anchor to the bottom of an unforgiving ocean, the look of delight on Lassie's face leaving him feeling wrung out and hollow.

Leaving him feeling empty - save for the poisonous thoughts racing through his mind, of which there were plenty.

 _Nope. Cookies are_ _ **not**_ _going to fix it._

"You. Me. Lunch!" the Captain of the Coast Guard barked at the detective, who smiled and snapped to attention.

Shawn saw him salute, and it made him want to puke.

"Ay, ay!" Lassiter responded, and the psychic shuddered, unable and unwilling to accept this as reality.

There was just no way it could be.

 _Cookies aren't going to fix it at all_ , he thought, trying his best not to pout, knowing he needed to save face to keep clout.

"So, I guess the sibling rivalry is back on?" he asked, the comment a feeble attempt to mask the wreck inside his chest.

Inside, he wondered how his heart could still be beating.

How, when it hurt this much.

It just didn't make sense.

* * *

Carlton couldn't believe Dunbar had appeared out of nowhere, ordering him to lunch with her. He wasn't normally the subservient type, but the scene had played out in front of Spencer and he couldn't let the opportunity for goading pass, the scene being set as if he'd staged it himself.

Honestly, he couldn't have planned it better if he tried. It was just a shame lunch had been such a damn disaster...

Barbara was loud.

She interrupted him.

She was overbearing.

Opinionated.

Obstinate.

Worst of all, she wouldn't stop trying to drag him into her stupid rivalry with her sister.

Carlton kept trying to change the topic, even hinted that as his employer, cattiness about the Chief was something he couldn't condone, let alone participate in, but she had just ignored him, continuing to rant. Raised to be polite to a fault, he did his best to remain civil, smiling and nodding where he could, but part-way through the third unnecessarily embarrassing story, he'd caught himself tuning her out.

Tuning her out and thinking about a certain psychic instead.

 _At least_ _ **his**_ _babble is interesting,_ Carlton mused, head on his hand as he feigned interest in Dunbar's story.

Barbara blathered on, oblivious to that fact that her companion couldn't care less - that his mind was, in fact, thinking of something else entirely.

Some _one_ else _,_ entirely; Carlton completely unable to shake the thoughts, even though he tried.

They stuck in his mind as if super-glued there;

The way Spencer's lips curved when he smiled, spitting out another useless piece of 80's trivia.

The way he threw himself at the cop, like he didn't care he might get punched in the face for trying.

The glint in his eyes - _those gorgeous hazel eyes of his_ \- when he somehow one-upped the detective yet again.

During the Commander's stories, Carlton nodded in all the right places. He offered an affirmative statement when it was called for. He even made sure to smile. But really, he was elsewhere.

Doing _other_ things.

He recalled the sharp bite of teeth against his flesh and how it made him feel.

The strands of silk slipping through his fingers, his fists in Spencer's hair.

The soft stubble against his skin as the psychic's mouth hop-skipped its way south.

Carlton knew he was flushed and he loosened his collar, slipping deeper into memories he had hoped to forget. His groin pulsed at the thought of the psychic in his lap and he hoped to hell the Commander couldn't tell, shifting in his seat to adjust to the delicious discomfort as he crossed his fingers under the table.

He remembered the moment just before Spencer had put himself there - the moment when he could have stopped the man.

But he hadn't.

He remembered the way his heart had pounded. How his thoughts had clouded. How quickly it had all occurred; the fact that the thing he wanted so badly but feared so intensely sat in his lap offering nirvana had nearly short-circuited his senses.

And Shawn had somehow known.

Had antagonized him into action, his magnificent mouth bypassing the detective's reticent brain entirely.

Spencer's lips had made him tingle.

Made him soar.

 _Fuck_ , he thought, snapping back to attention and shaking his head, an act Dunbar failed to notice, too wrapped up in herself and her stories to care. His breath grew heavy as he glanced around the break room, and he found himself happier with her inattentiveness than he had been to start, her willful ignorance a blessing in disguise.

 _You're not supposed to be thinking about that!_ he scolded himself, trying to push the thoughts away.

But his memories were so strong he could almost scent Spencer in the air, transporting him back to his car against his will, his face pressed against the psychic's skin as he inhaled desire both earthy and intoxicating. Trying to ground himself and failing, he could nearly feel Shawn's hands against his skin as they slid inside his shirt, fingers dancing through his chest hair while he whispered sweet nothings in Carlton's ear.

 _Dammit, Carlton!_ he thought, struggling to look the Commander in the face.

It seemed the Head Detective had a problem he could no longer deny, hard as he might try.

He had a thing for Spencer. He had it _bad._

 _You're not supposed to be thinking like that_ _ **at all!**_

And there was not a damn thing to be done about it.


	8. That's All

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **That's All**

 _ ***This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 7: Talk Derby To Me**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is That's All by Genesis**_

* * *

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing up there?"

Shawn chuckled from his perch above the sales floor. Having been on high a while, he'd wondered how long Lassie had been staring at his ass before he'd decided to say something, betting it was much longer than the detective would be willing to admit.

Not that the detective would admit to staring at Shawn's butt anyhow, no matter how many times he'd been caught doing so.

Shawn grinned at the outburst.

"Right now, I'm putting my hand in my pocket sans thumb and pointing at an imaginary seagull," he said, pretending to be one of the store's many mannequins, proud of how well this recent bout of chicanery was messing with Lassiter.

There was nothing quite like seeing the usually controlled cop caught off guard, and because he now knew every lewd word Shawn spoke was also an honest one, the detective grew flustered that much faster; watching Lassie struggle to maintain his composure was the most adorable thing Shawn had seen since Jules had sent him that video of a Corgi in a Christmas sweater.

Though their relationship hadn't taken off quite like Shawn had hoped, things had changed between the two men, and he loved the fact that he was getting under Lassiter's skin. Riling him up had somehow become more fun that it had been before, a thing he hadn't thought possible.

 _Such a sweet shade of pink he turns,_ Shawn mused, eyes still trained on Lassie as the cop turned away. He was trying to act all calm and casual, but Shawn could have sworn Carlton's gaze had lingered on his jean-clad crotch, though he tried and failed to hide it with a sneer.

Onto Lassie's little games, he laughed again and continued;

"−but earlier I got a call from the Chief. She sounded serious. Third break-in of its kind in as many months... no leads."

"Chief told you that?" Lassiter asked, surprised.

"No, she did," Shawn replied, smacking the perky mannequin on the ass, knowing it would serve to frustrate Lassie further. "She looks like the Venus De Milo but she prefers to be called 'Traci with an i'!"

It worked; Lassiter scowled, his furrowed brow more beautiful than Shawn had remembered it being.

As a matter of fact, it might have just been the sexiest scowl Shawn had ever seen.

He couldn't wait to make him do it again.

* * *

 _Whoever had the idea to cram six people in a room clearly made for two deserves to get shot,_ Carlton thought glumly.

He had done his best to avoid it, so he had no idea how Spencer had weaseled his way in next to him - especially when one considered how many bodies they had managed to stuff in there. The odds were definitely _not_ in its favor, but then again, Shawn had proven that he was an odds-defying oddity many times before, so Carlton wasn't exactly sure why he hadn't known to expect it.

He really should have known better by now.

"It's cozy!" Spencer said, smirking. "Which means I'll need everyone's hands where I can see them. That means yours too, Chief."

Spencer wasn't accounting for his own hands of course. He played by his own rules, and _his_ hands were currently being used to brush against the back of Carlton's thigh.

It sent chills down his spine and caused a tingle to spread across his suddenly too warm skin.

 _Concentrating on_ _ **anything**_ _is going to be next to impossible._ Carlton thought, clenching his teeth in frustration as Spencer used the opportunity to press his broad chest against the cop's back, pretending to lean forward for a closer look.

Carlton looked down, crossing his arms over his chest to obscure his view of his growing erection.

They needed to get this over with before someone noticed his obvious state of distress.

Before _Spencer_ noticed his state of distress.

He growled, determined not to let Spencer get the best of him.

"Would you just play the tape?"

* * *

"They can't be women. This kinda thing took some kinda muscle!" Gus proclaimed.

"It's a little shocking, isn't it? Not as shocking as this -" Shawn began.

Gus looked up from his textbook and glared at his best friend and the ugly shorts he wore.

"The fact that I, for some reason, am watching you shop for pants instead of properly studying for my exam?"

Shawn continued, ignoring the attempted guilt trip. "No!" he said, and Gus arched an eyebrow.

"What then?"

"I put my tongue in Lassie's mouth!" he exclaimed, sweeping his hands out into the standard 'Ta-Da' position and wiggling his fingers for effect.

Looking like he'd been hit by a train, Gus sputtered, not sure he'd heard right. "I'm sorry. You did what now?!"

"Tongue. Mouth. Mine! Lassie's!" Shawn smiled. He pulled his arms back down and held up two fingers instead. "Twice!"

Gus stared at Shawn in disbelief.

"You must be out your damn mind. No way he didn't hit you."

"Surprisingly, no. We wound up making out like horny teenagers," Shawn offered, shrugging. "That led to some moaning," he considered. "And some grinding."

Gus shook his head, textbook completely forgotten as Shawn continued.

"Not necessarily in that order, of course. It was like... well, not quite James Spader/Holly Hunter level sexy -"

"Shawn, I _do not_ need to hear this!" Gus protested, ignoring the _Crash_ reference. Shawn knew his friend would prefer not to have the image of he and Lassie in his head, but simply couldn't resist. It wasn't _his_ fault Gus had been dumb enough to inquire, and Shawn wasn't about to let the opportunity slide.

He really should have known better.

"You asked!" he replied, cocking a condescending eyebrow.

"I most certainly did not!" Gus protested, crossing his arms and glowering, holding out for five whole seconds before he took the bait.

"How did this even happen?" he sighed, defeated.

Shawn chuckled, the kind that meant he was sure his friend would regret asking the question.

"Do you really wanna know?"

"Probably not, no," Gus answered honestly, knowing it wouldn't do him any good.

"All I gotta say is I'm sweet on him. I think I have been for a while. Can you blame a guy?"

Shawn paused.

"You know what? Don't answer that."

Gus tsked in response.

"Again, I say, you must be out your damn mind."

"I'm gonna go for it," Shawn said decidedly, adjusting the waistband of the shorts he wore. "Even though he literally might kill me."

Concern suddenly etched across Gus' face.

"What do you mean, Shawn? I thought you said it was consensual."

"It's a long story which I will one day that is not today tell you," Shawn replied breezily. "And it's shocking, but not as shocking as this..."

He ogled himself and the shorts in the mirror.

"These are thirty-ones and they're really pulling tight in here."

Gus just shook his head and went back to studying while Shawn continued.

"Make yourself useful, get me the thirty-twos!"

* * *

Jules inviting herself over to discuss the case should have been perfect.

Shawn had been hoping to get some one-on-one time with her anyhow but had lacked the opportunity 'til now, the Chief having agreed with his suggestion she go undercover. He'd foolishly forgotten about his own selfish desires when he'd said it, something he wasn't often caught doing, and had been focused on the case and her success rather than his need for input on his less-than-stellar love life.

Gus would say he was growing as a friend, that he should be proud of himself, and he supposed he was, not that it meant much.

His conversations with Juliet had always been valued, their discourse both easy and open; Juliet understanding that his silly demeanor didn't diminish who his intelligence, what he needed, or who he was. As Lassie's partner, she probably knew both he and Carlton better than anyone else, and he knew any advice she would give would be invaluable in more ways than one.

He just hoped that her advice just wasn't "don't".

Shawn knew the conversation he wanted to have was going to be an awkward one, and so he had taken the time to pretty up the office with hopes that dinner and a bouquet would help temper the mood. His attraction to Lassie was going to look like it came out of nowhere, especially after he'd spent so much time flirting with her, but he wanted to show his appreciation nonetheless, and hoped she didn't think she was being used to further his agenda, even though she kind of was.

He also hoped she'd take the news lightly, sure she knew his flirting was just a part of his personality. He had spent years blatantly casting his net wherever it would land, after all, hitting on professionals, criminals, and everyone in between - in fact, all you needed to get hit on by Shawn Spencer these days was a heartbeat and a nice butt. He had dropped so many one-liners during cases over the years that he'd lost count, not even sure he could count that high, and Jules had rolled her eyes at most of them, which meant that she _had_ to know he was only ever serious about those few who were serious about him, his bawdy banter as common as converting oxygen to carbon-dioxide.

Still, Shawn wanted to soften the blow; to let her know that she meant the world to him and that her input meant even more.

He'd had a speech prepared, another speech of greatness, like the one he'd given about Gus back at the reunion, guaranteed to tug at her heartstrings. But he never got the chance to share.

As a matter of fact, they barely even talked about the case.

Juliet had stormed in all 'Ms. Bossypants', wearing a zebra striped shirt and hoop earrings big enough to stick her ankles through, determined to have things her way and hell-bent on heading to what turned out to be a music video set.

He had tried to warn her, tried to salvage it.

Really, he had.

He just hated to see his favorite female detective embarrass herself, but like Cassandra in tales of old, his warnings were ignored, and she had stormed out to her doom.

It was just a damn shame.

* * *

Lassie's smile made Shawn's knees weak.

It didn't even matter that the detective was mocking the younger man; the way his eyes lit up with glee made Shawn feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It made him wonder if the delightfully awkward feeling was mutual, and if so, curious as to how else he could ensure that look stayed on Lassie's face as long as possible.

Shawn picked up the mannequin arm, counting its fingers.

"One, two, three, four, five."

Lassiter, Vick and Gus looked at him, faces blank.

"Five, four. Four, five. I'm seeing four and I'm seeing five!" he continued. "Lassie, four and five?"

"Nine? The number nine!" Lassiter answered, flustered.

"No! Four times five?"

"Twenty?" Vick offered.

"Five and twenty. Five times twenty."

"A hundred!" she blurted, sure she was right.

"Minus four times four times five."

"Four times four times five?" Lassiter asked, his eyes narrowed in thought, a look the psychic loved.

Shawn pretended to ponder, using the mannequin arm as a replacement for his own.

Wearing his extra-thoughtful face, he exclaimed, "Skater number twenty! She's the one who dumped all this stuff!"

Which meant one down and three or four to go.

He knew Juliet was close and said as much, trying to buy her a little more time.

"Okay – Lassiter, let's get someone on the lookout for any more dumping sites around town," Vick said, turning to leave.

Before he could turn to follow, Shawn began to stroke Lassiter with the mannequin arm, an inviting grin on his face and equally lecherous thought in his mind. As he expected, Lassie glared back, then stormed away.

"We've gotta get to Zilkes and we've gotta check something out," he said to Gus, dropping the appendage in defeat and walking in the other direction.

"If you say pants, I'm gonna sock you in your Adam's Apple," his friend replied.

Shawn muttered, repeating the sentence under his breath as he trudged along the riverbed. Seeing the bridge in the distance, he sighed, not yet ready to crawl back to civilization. Civilization was just too tough these days, a place where he had to pretend his feelings didn't exist, and he needed some insight before being ready to face reality again.

He needed to chat with his buddy.

Looking at his pal, he stopped, waiting for the other man to notice he wasn't keeping up.

"What's the matter now, Shawn? I thought you wanted to get going," Gus asked, a frown on his face.

"I do... I just – can I ask you something first?"

* * *

Carlton doubled back.

The Chief had asked him to clarify a detail while they were still there, and making his way towards the river, he saw the Wonder Twins standing beside a big bushy tree in the midst of what seemed to be an intense conversation.

Were it anyone else, Carlton would care enough not to interrupt, but as it was Spencer – a man who violated his own personal space all the damn time – he made his way forward, hidden by the shadow of the foliage, stopping only when he heard muffled noise turn into words.

"I just don't understand why you're putting yourself through this, Shawn. Why don't you go after someone who is willing?" Guster asked. "What happened with Abby?"

"Abby doesn't make me feel anything anymore, Gus! Besides, Lassie is willing. Trust me, he is very willing!" Spencer replied earnestly.

"Tossing you onto your ass on the pavement doesn't sound very willing to me."

Carlton gulped.

He'd changed his mind; he didn't want to be hearing this. He also couldn't believe they were having this conversation _here_ of all places. They were feet away from an active crime scene! What were they thinking?!

"He's scared, Gus. He's only ever been on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and this is more like Full Throttle at Magic Mountain. Wouldn't you be terrified too?"

"If you came on to me?" the more sensible of the duo laughed. "You're damn straight, son!"

"You know I think your tractor is sexy, Gus, but it's Lassie's that turns me on," Spencer joked, his face turning serious as he continued. "I know it. He knows it. I know he knows it, and he knows I know he knows it! I just have to keep doing what I'm doing, and he'll eventually come around," he insisted. "I'm sure of it."

Trying to reposition himself behind a branch, Carlton shifted, a gust of wind ruffling the leaves around him.

"You think so?"

Spencer looked up into the sky and sighed, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

"I know so, Gus. You didn't see the way he looked at me."

"With great distaste?"

Shawn glared.

"Har, har! Why does everybody think that's so funny?"

Guster cocked his head. "Because it is?"

Shawn ignored him.

"He was scared," he informed his friend. "Scared, but also super turned on."

"So?" Gus asked.

"So, he needs time to process, that's all. That much is obvious. And you know what? I'm gonna give it to him," the psychic said. "But I'm also not going to stop reminding him that I want him just as bad. Or that I'm here for him when he finally realizes that he wants me back. That I'll still be here waiting and wanting him when he's finally ready to act."

Spencer paused, sighing.

"I'm not going to give up on a chance at us. I just can't."

"So, let me get this straight," Guster began, pointing a finger at his friend. "You're the most impatient guy in the world - the dude who sometimes eats frozen waffles still frozen because the toaster takes too long - but you're willing to wait for a guy who might never be ready for you? Didn't you decide Juliet wasn't worth that? What makes Lassiter any different?"

Shawn ran his hand along the nape of his neck, watching the clouds drift by.

"Yeah, Gus. Pretty much," he admitted. "But he gives me all the feels, so I'd be stupid not to."

"I think you're stupid either way," Guster said, casually mocking his pal. "But that's unimportant. What _is_ important is - does _he_ know that?"

Spencer smirked, still staring at the sky.

"If he didn't before, he certainly does now."

The sunlight shone in his hazel eyes as he dropped his head and glanced over, looking the detective straight in the face.

 _Fuck._

Carlton had been caught.

 _Fuck fuck fuck._

"He's hiding in the bushes. He's been listening to us talk this whole time," Shawn smiled, waving at him as he spoke.

Gus' head whipped around so fast, the cop was surprised he hadn't hurt himself.

"Where?" he asked, eyes squinting as he searched. "I don't see him."

Carlton turned tail.

There was no force on God's green earth that could get him to stay now; Vick was going to have to get her answers some other way.

He ran.

* * *

Shawn was glad Jules was okay.

Even more so, that she wasn't dead in the back of a truck somewhere like Westwood had wound up.

Also, that she had nailed her bad guys.

 _Bad gals,_ he supposed.

He wondered if she'd talked to Lassie since and whether he had told her what he'd overheard at the dump site. Shawn doubted it. That would mean Lassie would have to come clean about their encounter – _encounters_ \- which seemed unlikely, what with Lassie taking a freakin' _sponge-bath_ in the River of Denial.

Wanting to ensure they were still on good terms and having nothing better to do with his time, Shawn had waited at the rink for barely an hour before Juliet showed, hoping she would stop by to drop off her equipment after writing up her reports. Their dynamic had been shaken up by this case and he just couldn't bear the thought of leaving things as they'd been, unwilling and unable to chance losing the camaraderie they shared.

Jules was one of the few people he could trust with his life and he'd only recently realized how much he relied on having her around. He wanted - no, _needed -_ to make sure they still felt comfortable around one another, and since she was good on skates and he was the king of breaking his ass, he was more than happy to do so to help put her at ease. After all, she deserved a little light heartedness right now, having been such a grueling case.

For her especially.

Besides, he couldn't remember the last time the two of them had just hung out.

Shawn teased her, having the DJ spin a love song and calling it a couple's skate. When Jules smiled and drawled out his name in warning, he smiled, his heart warming as he realized that things between them were going to be fine. She laced up her skates and made her way over and he wobbled, pretending to have done so on purpose, just glad they could still be silly every now and then.

As they skated, he poked at her fist. She chastised but didn't stop him from bumping the back of his hand against hers, a gesture full of affection.

He wasn't great with words, not those kinds anyway, and he hoped she interpreted the act correctly.

Hoped she knew how awesome she was.

That he would be lost without her, just like he would be without Gus.

 _I'll talk to her about Lassie another time,_ Shawn thought, knowing it was pertinent, but not as pertinent as this.

Because sometimes what he wanted wasn't the most important thing.

Sometimes fixing friendships had to come first.


	9. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Girls Just Wanna Have Fun**

 _ ***This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 8: Gus Walks Into A Bank**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Girls Just Wanna Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper**_

* * *

Shawn and Juliet strolled silently along the boardwalk, their conversation having worn thin after an hour or so of non-stop gabbing. It was a comfortable silence, one Shawn was able to enjoy very rarely, with very few people. Glad the evening had turned out like it had, he smiled, looking over at the beautiful blonde beside him, all dolled up for her cancelled evening out.

He would be lying if he said he was sorry for sending Commander Cameron on a wild goose chase into the sewers, so instead he said nothing at all. Juliet could date the d-bag SWAT leader all she wanted if that was what made her happy, but the pseudo-psychic wasn't inclined to resign to maturity about the situation.

In Shawn's opinion, there was very little to like about the other man, and he wasn't about to hurt himself trying. Nor would he worry about how his bit of fun would affect his relationship with Juliet should she find out he was the reason her date had been cancelled. Jules was a big girl, Luntz had deserved what he had gotten, and Shawn had faith that he could deal with whatever happened.

Besides, there was just too much going on in his head to bother with any of that.

Though his night had taken a turn for the better, Shawn's day had been the _worst_. He appreciated that the situation had resolved itself the way it had - especially considering the alternative – but he needed to blow off some steam, nonetheless. It wasn't every day that his bestie was taken hostage, after all, and since the psychic had not only solved the case but managed to one-up Juliet's date in the process, he thought that he deserved a little satisfaction as his reward.

Just one night.

One night of debauchery and fun. That's all he wanted.

If only he could figure out how to make it happen.

"Let's go out," he said suddenly, an idea popping into his head.

"What? Go out where?" Juliet asked, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. "We are out."

"Let's go _out_ out. Out to celebrate. We survived a hostage situation today, we deserve to party!"

"Okay," she said, and laughed at his enthusiasm. "It's a little more complicated than that, but sure. A night on the town could be fun. I look fabulous already," she shrugged, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder, "and a drink would be nice after a day like today."

"Let's go grab Gus. And Buzz. And Lassie!" Shawn exclaimed, tugging at her hand like an impatient child. "Let's make Lassie come out and play!"

He hoped Jules would say yes.

That she would find a way to make the object of his affections agree to join them.

That without knowing it, she would somehow help him fix his lack of love life.

Up until today, Lassie had been ignoring Shawn, which didn't sit well with him. In fact, it irritated Shawn as much as _he_ usually irritated the stodgy detective, which was to say, a LOT.

Today, however, had been different.

Today there had been a hostage situation and Lassie had been forced to interact with him.

To talk to him. To listen to him.

Had been forced to touch him.

Had had his hands _all over_ Shawn.

Though the psychic wasn't sure whether the detective knew it, _he_ had been paying attention. Every moment of Lassie manhandling him was sinful torture; a torture he'd been thinking about all day. The feel of Lassiter's hands on his body – his forceful hands moving Shawn around like a ragdoll – had been the only thing keeping him grounded all day, worry over his best friend lessening whenever he felt the man's firm touch.

Glad she couldn't read his mind, Shawn looked at Juliet with giant puppy dog eyes, hoping they would help him achieve his goal. A broad grin spread across her face as she shook her head and laughed, walking back toward the Psych office to pick up her car.

"Sure. Let's go get Carlton -" she started.

Shawn grinned back, sure he was about to get his way now that he had her help. Once Jules got Lassie to agree to come play...

 _Well, then maybe_ _ **I'll**_ _get to come and play,_ he thought, crossing both fingers and toes as his grin grew wicked.

"- I can't wait to see how you're going to convince him!" she finished.

Shawn's face fell,

 _Ahh, crap._

* * *

"It's not like I expect you to get up there and head-bang to Kickstart Your Heart or anything," Shawn cajoled, standing on Lassiter's doorstep.

Waiting patiently near the vehicle, his pals watched his attempt to work some magic. McNab was going to meet them there with wife in tow, so he and Gus had carpooled with Juliet, neither wanting to drive.

He had failed in getting Gus to bring the Blueberry; his best friend wanting to drink his face off for once, he was too paranoid to leave his company car at the bar overnight. Shawn couldn't begrudge him that, the man deserving to do whatever the hell he wanted after the day he'd had. Besides, should he agree to join them, driving together also meant driving with Lassie, which gave Shawn the perfect opportunity to play footsies with the detective in the back seat. So really, it was lucky that Gus had insisted he ride with the group for once.

Having no problem leaving _her_ vehicle all evening, Jules had agreed to drive them there, but only after pointing out that cabs were not only a thing, but a thing they'd all need to take home anyhow, and Shawn had laughed so hard at Gus' reaction that he'd nearly fallen off his chair.

After a brief discussion on how best to convince Lassiter, they concluded they'd have better luck if they just showed up on his doorstep, so headed out to get him. Not only would it make them harder to get rid of than hanging up the phone would, it being Shawn's idea meant that they could and would leave the actual convincing up to him.

How'd he get to be so lucky?

And that was where they were now, Shawn doing his best to convince the stubborn cop to leave his house.

"C'mon, Lassiekins... just for drinks. Come celebrate. I know you know the meaning of the word, you party animal, you!"

He grinned his patented megawatt grin at the hesitant detective, knowing it had won him over in the past.

And also, Shawn was already a little tipsy.

He'd needed to calm his nerves, and because they'd had to wait a while for Gus to arrive, Shawn had rooted through the cupboards for the bottle of pineapple flavored special-occasion schnapps he knew they'd stashed somewhere. Far too excited about the potential the evening held, he was thirsting for a pregame shot or three, and said nothing when Juliet shot him an inquiring glance.

It wasn't every day he tried to seduce Lassiter, after all.

Well, not _intentionally_ , anyhow.

Waiting less and less patiently, Shawn wished he had brought the bottle with him, feeling the need for a bit more liquid courage now. He didn't know what it was about the dour detective that set him on edge, but the lack of answer was causing his nerves to get the best of him.

Almost desperate in his desire for Lassie to say yes, he bounced on the balls of his feet in anticipation, a shiver racing up his spine.

Lassiter scowled at him as he waffled, running a hand through his graying hair while he thought, and Shawn wondered how responsible he was for its occurrence, shortly thereafter deciding that he didn't really care.

"Pleeeeeeease?" he begged, his lower lip sticking out in a pout. "It won't be nearly as much fun without you." He stared at Lassie, trying to decipher something - _anything_ \- in the detective's hard blue gaze, hoping – _praying_ – he'd for some reason say yes.

The older man sighed, his contemplation over.

"I don't know why I'm allowing myself to be dragged into what I'm _sure_ will be a night of drunken debauchery−"

Shawn couldn't believe his ears. No way did he ever think Lassie was going to agree. Especially not after having spent all day together, working much closer than usual in their attempt to undercut the SWAT team.

"−but fine," the detective finished. "I assume I'm supposed to ride with you?"

Unable to comprehend what he'd just heard, the psychic continued to babble, brain disconnected from his mouth. "Jules is even here to be our adult supervision since she's the grown-up in the group and did you just say _okay_?"

Carlton nodded reluctantly.

"You said okay? Really?" Shawn's jaw dropped in surprise. "You agreed? Awesome! That's great!"

The cop raised an eyebrow, which Shawn ignored as he turned towards the car.

"Guys!" he called out a little too enthusiastically, placing his hand on Lassiter's shoulder. "He agreed! Lassie's not allergic to fun after all!"

Lassiter scowled again and looked at Shawn's hand intently.

"Just don't make me regret this, Spencer," the cop said, grabbing his keys and locking the door behind him.

Shawn batted his lashes at the detective, a slow, languid smile creeping across his face as he linked arms with the reluctant man.

"Who, me?" he blinked. "Never!"

* * *

Staring at the shot in front of him, Carlton sighed; doing his best to avoid the stress he felt beating down upon him, he tossed it back, the tequila hitting his tonsils as the rest of the table shouted "Kanpai!".

He relished the burn, and his glass hit the table while the others cheered and jeered over who could finish their shot first, his companions making a race out of getting wasted. Carlton, however, was eyeing the tequila awaiting their resident charlatan's return. Needing its help to numb the _whatever-the-fuck_ he was feeling, he contemplated snagging it for himself, figuring that if Shawn was bothered by it, well… he could just suck it.

No - wait.

Taking a page out of the psychic's playbook was a bad idea. If Spencer didn't like it, he would just order the man another, the much safer of two options.

It wouldn't even be a problem if the man were actually there drinking his drink, mind you. But he wasn't. To Carlton's chagrin, Spencer was onstage singing. Singing and shaking his _thang_. The cop had vehemently protested the psychic's use of the word, of course, but had quickly learned that any distaste shown would simply fuel the other man's fire. So instead, he sat there with his mouth closed, hoping to avoid catastrophe.

As if he wasn't already embarrassed enough.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought, reaching over to pilfer the drink and slamming it back as fast as he had the first, grimacing when the tequila hit the back of his throat.

 _Dammit Spencer! Why must you drive me to drink?_

The psychic had insisted on going somewhere _other_ than Tom Blair's Pub for once - not that Carlton found himself in the same bar as the consultant often anyhow - so although he had been in the establishment for a few hours by that point, he didn't _actually_ know where he was. Too distracted by the man's attempt to get a piggyback inside, he hadn't bothered to look at the marquee as they'd walked through the door. He'd also done his best to stay rooted in place since, assuming that staying stagnant was less likely to get him into trouble; trouble bouncing around the bar like a suped-up pinball in the form of a pseudo-psychic.

Carlton had no idea what had possessed Spencer to try mounting him like a stallion, but he suspected the man had started drinking before arriving on his doorstep, which meant that _he_ needed to catch up just to cope. It was, perhaps, not the greatest idea, the liquor forcing his defenses to lower, but because he didn't want to be a spoil-sport and put a damper on the evening, Carlton didn't know what else to do.

So, he drank.

And drank.

While it was true was known for having a taste for a good liquor, he didn't normally guzzle this much _or_ this fast and had lost track of how much he'd had since his arrival. Spencer was mostly at fault, having bribed the karaoke host into letting him sing more than his fair share. Unfortunately for Carlton, every one of his performances had been not-so-subtly dedicated to the intoxicated detective, and it made him want to hide, his ears burning with humiliation. He nearly died each time the psychic took the stage - every performance growing increasingly more provocative until he sat there watching Spencer gyrate, crooning the Divinyl's "I Touch Myself" while rolling his hips and licking his lips in Carlton's general direction.

It left the cop mortified.

He hated Spencer in that moment, not only for being a public embarrassment, but more so for the way in which he chose to do so. Carlton was seething so badly he was surprised his head hadn't exploded. But, no matter how he might try, he couldn't deny his body's responses to Shawn's antics, his desire to throttle the man in no way negating the fact that he was turned on, hard as a rock, and unable to hide it.

He hoped no one asked about his shallow breathing because he had no suitable explanation to give. The flush on his cheeks could be explained away to intoxication, but everything else? If anybody noticed, he'd be screwed.

All the while, Spencer grinned lasciviously from the small stage, looking like he knew _exactly_ what he was doing to the detective.

"I want you. I don't want anybody else, and when I think about you, I – ah – touch myself!" he sang, grabbing his crotch and thrusting.

Carlton had to get out of there. Had to remove himself from the room before Shawn got the stupid idea to give him a freaking lap-dance or something. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts, and another to compose himself, neither an easy task in a bar as crowded as this mystery spot.

Spencer only needed half an excuse to molest him these days and seemed half a step away from doing so now, so his escape had to be imminent.

Carlton couldn't let it happen here.

Couldn't let it happen at all.

He needed to clear his head.

Needed to breathe.

To try to get rid of his ever-growing erection.

He glanced at the rest of his table, thankful they were engrossed in the mockery the psychic was making of himself, and determining his departure was unlikely to be noticed, slipped off his chair and slunk away, his face burning as bright as his ears had been.

* * *

Shawn saw Lassie straighten the jacket he knew covered the man's holster, finding it insanely sexy the detective didn't go anywhere without his pistol and glad that it seemed to be his only competition for the man's affections these days. As for any human candidates… well, he'd kept a straight face when he was told, but Shawn had been delighted to hear that Lassie's lunch date with Barbara had gone belly-up.

Though not as delighted as he'd been when Lassie manhandled him away from Luntz today, then forgotten to let go.

Channeling his inner-stripper, Shawn ran a hand down his stomach as he sang and accompanied it with what passed as a body-roll, achieving his intent of riling the crowd up. His big finish approaching, he swung his leg across the mic-stand and thrust against it lewdly as he watched Lassiter walk away; the rest of the group too enthralled by his riding the mic-stand like a pony to notice the detective's disappearance. As he finished his performance and hopped off the stage, Shawn bowed a flamboyant bow, at which the crowd cracked up, cheering him on.

The applause was a music that set fire to his soul, and he beamed ear to ear, walking towards the table and blowing kisses at his imaginary fans while smiling at his friends.

"Ah, my adoring groupies! How- _ever_ did you live without me?" he teased, approaching.

"Careful there, Shawn. Your inner attention whore is showing," Juliet mock-admonished, while Gus laughed and replied -

"Easy! It was the best and shortest four minutes of my life!'

Shawn chuckled. Gus said that, but he wasn't sure how his buddy even survived _college_ without him, let alone the last three songs he'd sung.

"Another round of shots says I!" he proclaimed, looking for their waitress, only to find her stepping out for what he assumed was a quick cigarette.

It was okay, though. Shawn didn't mind having to wait. Not on a night like this.

A glance around the table showed his friends in various stages of inebriation; Gus was smiling his big goofy grin at Jules, who in turn was extolling the virtues of the citrus wedges she had bogarted while keeping an eye on McNab. McNab had two straws in his mouth and was pretending to be a walrus for his wife, and Shawn laughed at the sight, not even a little worried about keeping his companions entertained.

"I'm just gonna−" he said, pointing to the bar and Gus nodded at him.

Shawn flashed the two-fingered peace sign as he walked away, happy he could focus on other, more important things instead.

Things like where Lassie had gone off to.

Alone.

Shawn grinned, a wicked thought in his mind.

* * *

Carlton's head was swimming.

Since his entrance into the men's room, two others had already come and gone, having paid no attention to the man hunched over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Carlton felt the blood warm in his veins as it thrummed along to the crappy music thumping through the thin walls and wished he could've locked the bathroom door, but its lack of one made that an impossibility. If only he could shut out the world for a little while, a thing he also found impossible with that _damned_ door constantly swinging open.

 _Fucking Spencer,_ he thought, splashing cold water on his face. It was _always_ Spencer - Spencer who knew how to push not one, but _all_ of his buttons.

Knew how to get him going. Rile him up.

Something that seemed to be his favorite activity in the whole wide world.

 _Lucky fucking me._

Carlton had been questioning why he'd agreed to join him the whole time he'd been rooted in place. He'd known something like this was bound to happen, yet against his better judgment, had accepted the offer anyhow.

What an idiot he was.

But…

Spencer had looked so needy.

And because Carlton knew it had been an intense day all around, he had acquiesced, already pondering the idea of a drink and surprised by the extent to which the hostage situation had affected them both.

Look where _that_ had gotten him - he was hiding in a bar bathroom, for Christ-sakes!

What kind of man was he, that he couldn't control himself around such depraved displays?

It was just...

Whether he liked it or not, Spencer had _always_ been physical with him. From the day they'd first met, he'd lacked a filter for his mouth and had propositioned the cop almost daily, something that had just gotten worse as the years had gone by. Still, Carlton had found himself surprised when the psychic first hit the stage, belting out the unlikely choice of _Sex and Candy_ , staring at him lecherously as he sang.

This, the fraud had followed with a feisty rendition of Peter Gabriel's _Sledgehammer_ a mere twenty minutes later, complete with unnecessarily melodramatic masturbatory motions.

Barely half an hour after that, Spencer had decided to embarrass them both a third time with Olivia Newton-John's desire to get _Physical_. Carlton shut his eyes to block out his memory of the motions attached to that one, learning Spencer really _hadn't_ been lying about his acclaimed flexibility.

 _What in the blue_ _ **hell**_ _made me think this was a good idea?_ he thought again, his brow furrowed.

Carlton was too worked up for his own good. He knew he needed to gain control over himself - something that was proving to be far more difficult than expected - but he had no idea how that was supposed to happen when Shawn was practically prostrating himself for all the world to see. Dealing with the psychic's advances on a normal day was already tough enough as it was without the additional stress his current behavior was causing and having spent the afternoon _not_ resenting Spencer's involvement in a case for once – hell, even appreciating it – Carlton was left more confused than he'd ever been.

He wanted Spencer. But he didn't _want_ to want Spencer.

He would never tell the man, of course - not that it seemed to matter. And the fact that Shawn was so obviously into him could be seen as an incredible compliment, the sheer hedonism of his pursuit sending all the right feelings to all the right places. But at the same time, he wanted to smother the psychic into silence, his incendiary actions causing Carlton to live in a state of fear. As much as the idea of Spencer _really_ doing the things he sang about made the cop tingle, he was more than distressed to find himself being dragged into another situation that he didn't have the wherewithal to deal with.

Lost in his thoughts, Carlton almost didn't hear the creak of the door, and having maintained awareness of his surroundings only out of habit, he glanced up after a moment, aghast to find himself face to face with the last person on the planet he wanted to be trapped in the tiny two-stall bathroom with.

"Lassieface! Everything okay?"

Carlton groaned.

"You've been gone awhile," Spencer said, finding the detective leaning against the sink and looking pale. He put a hand on the detective's shoulder and looked around to see they were alone. "I was about to grab more shots. Wanna come with?"

"I don't need more shots, Spencer. I need to go _home_ ," Carlton snapped, turning to shove the man's hand away. "I shouldn't have come here and I'm sure as hell not about to go anywhere else with you. This was a mistake."

"Whoa! Why the sudden hostility, buddy? We're all just out to have a good time tonight!"

"I'm not your buddy. And I know exactly what kind of a good time you mean, Spencer," he objected, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. "You're just trying to get in my pants!"

At his words, Spencer looked down at Carlton's pants rather pointedly, and Carlton blushed, realizing he'd accidentally drawn attention to his throbbing erection and had thereby lost the excuse of lacking interest.

"You don't seem entirely opposed to the idea," Shawn shrugged, stepping closer with a smile scrawled across his face.

The cop glowered.

"I've been drinking. Just because my libido is less inhibited doesn't mean I'm compelled to do anything about it," he replied with a scowl, aware he was a hairsbreadth away from doing something stupid and doing everything in his power to stop himself.

The psychic licked his lips.

" _I_ could do something about it, if you'd like," he offered lightly, and reached towards Carlton to find his wrist caught in a tight grip.

"Why? Why do you keep doing this?" Carlton implored, torn with indecision as he held the man's hand in place. "Why won't you just leave me alone?"

 _It would be so easy..._

Spencer leaned in to whisper in the detective's ear.

"Why don't you interrogate me?" he purred, pressing his body into Carlton's. "Just put the screws to me and see if I break? You know you want to."

Carlton wasn't supposed to want to, but he did.

More than anything he'd ever wanted before.

That was the problem.

Frustrated at his lack of willpower, he snarled. He needed to be stronger than this!

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he dropped Spencer's wrist, flinging it and its owner back toward the wall. Shawn stumbled, his arm hitting the garbage can beneath the paper-towel dispenser, and Carlton did his best to ignore both the pained look the psychic shot him and the feeling of guilt that came with it.

"Fuck you, Spencer. I don't need your shit. If you're not going to be serious, I'm out of here," he spat, focusing on his frustration instead.

"I am being serious." Spencer rubbed at his wrist, a look of mild consternation flashing across his face before his hand dropped to his side. "I can't get you out of my head, Lassie; it's not a choice. You're addicting - it's like you're like my favorite flavor of creme-sicle and I can't get enough."

Spencer stepped forward.

Instinctively, Carlton took a step back.

"I've got a real bad sweet tooth, Lassie," Spencer breathed, voice husky as he cornered the cop. "I just wanna take a lick."

Carlton felt the color rise to his cheeks. He knew his face was ruddy with embarrassment and he made to step towards the exit, needing to bolt before he lost the sliver of self-control he still possessed.

Spencer intercepted him, pushing him up against the door.

"What are you doing?" the cop asked, bewildered.

"I thought Gus was going to die today," the man started.

Expecting the psychic to crack wise as per usual and unprepared for the response, the cop blinked slowly. Rarely displaying sincerity when other options were abound, Spencer was never serious if he could avoid it. Shawn's usual modus operandi was flirtatiousness laced with ridiculousness and Carlton was taken aback by the gravity of the situation, the look of solemnity on the psychic's face and ardent urgency in the man's voice leaving him shook.

Overwhelmed, he dropped his gaze as the psychic continued.

"I couldn't believe how terrified I was."

"What does this have to do with why I'm up against the door?" Carlton mumbled, eyes shifting to Shawn's face.

Shawn smiled, his eyes a little sad.

"When things got as hairy as they did at the end there..." he explained, trailing off. "It made me realize that Gus was right."

"Guster was -?"

Shawn nodded and cocked his head slightly, like he was searching Carlton's face for a reaction to his words.

"Life is fleeting," he said. "And I need to live it."

He reached out and ran his fingers along the detective's jaw, his feather-light touch causing Carlton to shiver.

"I need to say the things I'm feeling..."

Spencer's hand brushed through the soft strands of salt and pepper at the cop's temple.

"...and act on those feelings before it's too late."

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, pelvis pressed against pelvis, and Carlton shuddered, feeling Shawn's excitement match his own. His body flush and skin singing, the detective knew what they were doing was a bad idea.

But he struggled to remember why.

"Lassie" Shawn muttered.

"What?" he responded flatly.

Shawn smiled, and Carlton's breath caught in his throat.

"I'm going to kiss you now."

The cop swallowed, seeing the determined look in his companion's gaze.

"Don't you dare try to stop me."


	10. Tell It To My Heart

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Tell It to My Heart**

 _ ***This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 8: Gus Walks Into A Bank**_

 _ **** The accompanying songs are Tell It to My Heart by Taylor Dayne**_

Carlton froze, thoughts of rebuffing Spencer racing through his mind so fast he couldn't be sure they'd been there at all. But having never experienced sensation so intensely in his life, he gave in, desperate to capture the feeling and urging the psychic to explore freely, his moans muffled by the other man's mouth.

Every lick, every nibble, every brush of Spencer's hand against his skin.

It was overwhelming; intoxicating.

Carlton shivered, unable to tell whether Spencer's touch or the effects of the alcohol were to blame. It didn't really matter though - not when his skin sizzled where the man caressed. Not when his heart felt like it was about to beat right out of his chest.

It scared the ever-loving crap out of him.

"Wait. Wait, stop -" he panted, breaking away and trying to collect himself. "We can't do this."

"Why not?" Spencer whispered, pressing a kiss against the cop's jaw before taking a step back, a small frown upon his face.

Carlton batted him away as he attempted another, hissing, "We're in a bar bathroom with our colleagues less than fifty feet from us for fucks sake!"

"Note how you didn't say because you don't want to," Shawn taunted, cocking a mocking eyebrow as he continued. "You're growing, Lassie; I'm so proud of you!"

Carlton scowled.

"Just consider it an adventure – nobody's coming in with your back against the door," the psychic said, sliding close enough that Carlton felt the heat radiate off him, rendering the detective temporarily brain-dead. Shawn continued with a chuckle. "You know you wanna..."

The sound brought the cop back into his body and Carlton's brow furrowed harder, as if it's depth could strengthen his denial.

"I just wanna make you feel good, Lassie," Spencer said, smirking as he looked Carlton in the eye, wrapping his hand around the man's neck. It created a vulnerable moment the cop wasn't sure he was comfortable with, and a chill of exhilaration rushed up his spine. "What's gonna make you feel good right now?"

"Leaving," Carlton replied, trying to keep his expression grim and failing, tiny shocks sending signals to his already confused brain.

Carlton didn't want to go. It was the last think he wanted to do, as a matter of fact.

Which was _exactly_ why he should do it.

"Good night, Spencer."

The psychic laughed again, louder this time, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Well, that's just silly and also not going to happen," he said, smug.

Carlton sighed, his head dropping slightly. _This night is never going to end._

"Why don't you worry about yourself for once instead of worrying about what others think, Lassiepants?" the psychic continued, taking him off guard, nosy little bastard that he was.

Head snapping up at the inquiry, he looked at the younger man, a question in his eyes as he began to contemplate;

Horrible nickname aside, why _didn't_ he worry about himself instead of what others thought? Aggravating though he was, he hated to admit that Spencer might be on to something.

Carlton had experienced what he had thought was a fairly eventful life thus far. But upon hearing Spencer's words, he realized that he couldn't honestly say he'd been in control for any of it. Spending the entirety of his existence worrying about what everybody else thought, he had done what everyone else felt best for him. Which, he supposed, wasn't living so much as it was simply _existing_. And it was only since meeting the man in front of him that he realized the enormous difference between the two.

He'd always been a problem solver and proud of that fact, but if ever he'd had the opportunity to follow someone else's direction, Carlton was there, letting them make the big decisions instead of stepping in to take control himself - first his mother, then his ex-wife. It hit him then, that it was possible he had been holding on to Victoria so tightly not out of love, but out of fear.

But… what would he be without someone there to guide him?

To tell him what to do; what he _should_ do?

Who he should be?

Without that, who was he?

And what of this man in front of him, taunting him with traces of the truth?

 _This_ man, offering of himself in a way that no one had ever offered Carlton before?

Would one night of unbridled passion really ruin everything?

His brain told him yes while his body screamed no, his senses practically begging him to let go and give into feeling instead. Had he not earned the right to turn his brain off and enjoy the evening, come what may?

Even if what may was _him_?

Body pressed against body, Spencer held him down, looking like he relished the rare chance to switch roles. Clearly oblivious to the thoughts racing through his mind, the psychic stared into Carlton's eyes, hazel orbs pinning him in place, hands against the wall on either side of the detective's head to cage him in.

Carlton's breath quickened, and he felt Spencer's heart beat against his own, picking up pace.

"You need this. When's the last time you had anyone take control of your desires, Carlton?"

 _Carlton._

He swallowed.

Spencer had said his name – Spencer _never_ used his name. The man had a dozen pet names for him, but very rarely did he use the cop's given one. It sobered him a little, forcing him to realize that the answer to Shawn's question was probably 'never.'

"So again, I ask," the fake started, lifting Carlton's chin so they were face-to-face. The brush of the psychic's lips against his own left him light-headed. Whatever blood not already pooled in his groin surging there, he shivered with nervous anticipation, the warm breath of the other man ghosting across his skin and turning it to gooseflesh.

"What's gonna make you feel good right now, Lass?"

Time stood still as Carlton imagined what he wanted to do.

What he wanted the other man to do to him.

He saw a world where Spencer showed off _exactly_ how useful that mouth of his was; one with a lock on the bathroom door. A world with no consequences, or one where he felt free enough to act out his deepest desires, no hiding in a bathroom required.

He felt himself flush as he pictured their sweat slicked skin pressed together in the most dangerous of ways. It would never happen here, but his body ached with the possibility that it could.

That this wasn't the first time he had considered it.

His hand shook.

Unable to meet Spencer's inquisitive gaze, he ran his thumb along the man's lower lip, the faint blush spreading from his ears to his face. Shawn caught the appendage in his teeth and drew it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tip as he applied gentle suction, unconsciously mimicking the actions his imaginary-self had just performed.

 _Oh God._

Carlton wanted Shawn so bad it hurt.

He had never needed anything more.

And in that moment, he didn't give a damn about the repercussions.

"Get on your knees, Spencer," the detective breathed, steadying himself as he said words he swore he'd never.

Shawn grinned.

Carlton couldn't believe he was doing this, but he thrust his hand though the psychic's hair anyhow. Smiling a determined smile, he cupped Shawn by the back of the head to guide him.

"Do it now."

* * *

It was beyond anything Shawn could have ever imagined.

Even better, Lassiter had demanded it! That had to mean something, right?

Amazed at the turn their night had taken, Shawn was willing to do pretty much _anything_ Lassie asked for at this point, so long as it meant keeping the man here.

With him.

Preferably in various stages of naked.

So, he wasn't going to waste any more time thinking about it, he decided, knowing it could twist in his mind forever if he let it. It was what it was, and he latched onto Lassie's words -

 _Get on your knees, Spencer._

words that made his head spin and heart beat and blood pound;

 _Do it now._

words that made him feel like a virginal schoolboy about to suck his first cock in the back of some vintage Camaro;

 _Get on your knees, Spencer._

and he shivered, the thrill of acceptance even better than the thrill of the chase.

 _Do it now._

"Yes, sir," Shawn said, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Unbuckling Lassiter's pants, he kissed the detective slowly, sensually, _sexually_ before breaking away to oblige and lowering himself to the tiled floor. His heart skipped a beat upon freeing the man from his polyester prison, and eager to get down to business and wanting to show Lassie exactly how wonderful his world could be before changed his mind, Shawn licked his lips, reveling in the anticipation and struggling to believe his luck.

True, it had been awhile since he had last nob-gobbled, but that didn't matter much to Shawn, certain enthusiasm would make up for any skill he lacked. Though he briefly wondered if his gag-reflex was going to be a problem, it wasn't long before he remembered the fist-clench trick he used to suppress it with back in his deep-throating days of ol', chortling at the memory when he did.

He'd had to do _something_ other than Gus's sister while Gus was away at college, after all.

Lassie cleared his throat, bringing the psychic back to the task at hand, something Shawn never thought he'd see, let alone experience. And now that it _was_ in hand, he could only stare, his fingers finally wrapped around Carlton's slightly curved and absolutely delicious-looking cock.

Enraptured by the idea of what was to come and having imagined this moment increasingly often over the past few months, Shawn was curious as to what the man would taste like.

Dying to know how Lassie would feel at the back of his throat.

The texture of Lassiter's skin against his tongue.

The look the cop would wear when he was finally pushed over the edge.

Shawn was nearly beside himself in his need to find out. But he also needed to be certain Lassie was on board, _really_ on board, and so he paused, looking up. They had both been drinking, after all, and no matter how badly he wanted this, it wasn't going to happen if he wasn't certain.

"Lassie, you're sure you want me to do this? You don't have to if you don't -"

Lassiter interrupted him with an exasperated groan.

"I'm still waiting for you to prove you can do something useful with your mouth, Spencer."

Shawn smiled wider as the cop continued, rolling his eyes.

"Just suck my cock already, would you?"

* * *

Carlton felt like he was drowning in sensation.

He was drunk on it; the world surreal, his heart pounded in his chest to the beat of the muted music, the cold steel of the door handle pressing against his spine, the intensity in his groin growing as the charlatan moved his mouth with expert technique. The warm, wet feeling of Spencer's throat constricting around him drove Carlton mad and he thrust his hands into Shawn's hair so he wouldn't fall over, ignoring the man's muffled moan of protest as his grip tightened into a fist.

He was close, _so_ close, and if the pseudo-psychic moaned again, he was going to lose it completely.

Sensing him teetering, Shawn did exactly that, somehow smiling up at him with mouth full.

"Fuck!" the detective growled, his body tensing and jaw clenching as the entirety of his being exploded out of his cock. He said it again, groaning; breathless, he looked down, his eyes glazed over with bliss - a look that changed to surprise when Spencer swallowed.

Incredibly grateful for the burnished steel supporting his weight, Carlton felt boneless, curious as to how his legs were keeping him upright. Wrapped in the warmth of his post-coital glow, he didn't want to move - wasn't even sure he could - but as Shawn wiped his mouth and began to stand, the door shifted behind him.

McNab's voice filtered through.

"Guys, you in there?"

Panic rose like bile in his throat, his bliss gone like the wind.

 _Shit._

"Quick, in a stall," Shawn whispered as he shoved Carlton toward the larger of the two, aware getting caught was the last thing the detective needed right now. "Pretend you're sick."

Carlton didn't need to pretend. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, shame washing over him as he tucked himself in, nausea settling deep. The tequila rolled around in his gut like a cat high on nip, and as reality came crashing down around him, he thought he might hurl for real.

 _What have I done?!_

This changed everything.

He didn't want things to change; he was barely capable of dealing with things as is!

But his body didn't care, and his stomach turned to lead. As McNab shoved his head through the door to ask if all was okay, Carlton's brain rushed to reconnect to his body and he gagged, the enormity of the evening overtaking him. Shaking, he left Spencer to deal with the mess they had created, curling into a ball as he chastised himself.

 _Sweet Lady Justice. What the hell did I just do?_

* * *

"Hey, guys. You've been gone awhile. Everything okay?" the junior officer asked, his shoulder propping the door open, leaking the sound of the real world into the room.

Shawn glanced at Lassiter hunched over the john, a worried look flashing across his face. The cop was either putting on a hell of a show or something was seriously wrong. Either way, he knew he needed to get Buzz out of here, _fast_.

"Lassie's feeling sick," he replied, his mind latching onto the obvious explanation. And it was true, he knew. But _why_ Lassie was feeling sick was the important question. "He and José got a little too friendly, if you know what I mean."

"José?" the young cop asked, confused.

Shawn nodded, a grave look upon his face as he explained. "Cuervo."

"Ahh, the tequila!" Buzz exclaimed, stepping into the room to offer his assistance. "Well, does he need anything? Is there anything I can -"

Lassiter growled from the stall, sounding more animal than man.

"Leave."

Buzz's brow furrowed, and Shawn could tell the man was worried.

"Are you sure? I could -"

"Just go, dammit!" Lassiter shouted.

Buzz flinched.

"It's okay, Buzz," Shawn insisted, directing the helpful man toward the exit, his brow slightly furrowed. "He's just cranky cause he's a got a feel-bad. I got this; you go back to the table. He just needs some time."

"Okaaaay," Buzz said, still a little unsure. "Want me to tell the gang what's up?"

Shawn chuckled at McNab's choice of words.

Nothing was up.

 _Well, not anymore..._

"Sure, buddy. Thanks. We'll be out in a little bit."

And they would.

Just as soon as Shawn figured out what the hell was going on.


	11. Shadows Of The Night

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Shadows of The Night**

 _ ***This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 8: Gus Walks Into A Bank**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Shadows of The Night by Pat Benatar**_

 _I don't need time, I need a fucking lobotomy!_ Carlton thought, reeling from the experience he and Spencer had just shared. He didn't know _where_ his head was at, nor _why_ he was acting so erratically. He wasn't the type to have a sexual conquest in a public place, especially one with a colleague… so, what the hell?!

 _Okay, that's a lie,_ he admitted, acknowledging his past affair with Junior Detective Barry while completely ignoring his make-out session with the psychic just a few weeks prior. _But with a man? With Spencer? What the hell am I doing?_

"He's gone now, Lassie. It's okay. You can come out now."

Though he was fairly sure Spencer hadn't meant it that way, the double entendre smacked him in the face, and Carlton blanched at the words as they bounced around his brain.

He stayed where he was, too fucked up to move.

Spencer, noticing his lack of appearance, walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder, reaching out with the other; an offer to help him up.

Carlton felt his pulse race at the touch and hated himself for it.

He swatted the hand away, ashamed.

"Don't! Don't touch me."

Spencer's face fell at the sudden change in attitude; confused and a little angry, he stepped back. "What the hell, man? What's going on with you?"

"I shouldn't have – you shouldn't – this can't happen," Carlton stuttered, every reason he'd ever had for avoiding this moment rushing into his brain and throwing him off-kilter. "This was a bad idea. This wasn't supposed to happen like this!"

"How was it supposed to happen then, Lassie?" Spencer sneered, taken aback by the reaction. "Do you have a special contingency plan for your cock ending up in my mouth?"

Carlton gawked, sputtering.

"It wasn't supposed to happen at all."

Upset, Shawn clicked his tongue in disagreement. His smile faded, and though Carlton wished he would drop the subject, the look on the psychic's face indicated that his wish was no longer Spencer's command.

"Why do we keep finding ourselves in situations like this then?" Spencer asked.

"Because you're a pervert with no self-control," Carlton said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Shawn's face scrunched in a combination of hurt and disgust, a look Carlton had never seen him wear. The man straightened, an icy rage enveloping him as he processed the detective's words, and Carlton steeled himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing he knew was coming when the psychic drew a deep breath, wishing he hadn't been stupid enough to wind up in this predicament in the first place.

"Screw you, Lassie!" Spencer spat, his ire cutting into Carlton like a spear. "You asked for it! We both know it, and we both know you liked it, so cut the shit, man."

"You coerced me," he started, his deflectors flying up full force. "You took advantage; I would never in my right mind -"

"Fuck you," Spencer exploded, the man more upset than the detective had ever seen him. "Fuck you _and_ your hetero-normative self-hating bullshit. I am so tired of being blamed for your denial, Lassie!"

"I don't -" Carlton protested, getting interrupted almost instantly.

"No. Shut your friggin' pie-hole!" Spencer seethed, his fists bunched by his side, shaking. "It's time for grown-up talk, Lassie, and since you're acting like a fucking _child_ , it's clearly not your turn."

Shocked at the psychic's outburst, Carlton's jaw dropped. But he stayed silent, too startled to protest.

" _You_ kissed me at the precinct. And you were sober when you did it," Spencer said, the truth as biting as his tone.

"I -" Carlton tried again.

"Goddamn it, Lassie! Just _shut it_ and let me say my piece. You can go back to your cowardly delusions afterwards if I don't make any sense, okay?"

Carlton's jaw snapped shut and he nodded slowly.

"Okay," Spencer said, a little less angry when he saw Carlton agree.

But only a little.

The psychic started to pace in the small stall, his hands shoved through his hair in frustration.

The cop wished he would stop, the motion nauseating.

But Spencer continued, either unaware of or entirely ignoring Carton's discomfort. "You were sober, Lassie. Not just in the hall, but in the car, too. And the only reason you're not sober right now is because you want me just as bad as I want you. And you're scared. Which, okay - I can deal with that; I get it."

He stopped, staring straight at Carlton – straight _through_ Carlton – seeing the man beneath the denial, an act the detective found disconcerting.

"I get it," he repeated, softer this time. "But I am _not_ gonna be the guy who sluts it up for you and then gets turned into your verbal punching bag. I have way too much self-respect for that. I asked for your consent – I made _sure_ to ask for your consent - and you gave it."

He paused, then repeated himself.

"You _gave_ it."

Carlton flushed, his words echoing in his head.

 _Get on your knees, Spencer. Do it now._

"There was nothing dubious about your dick down my throat –"

 _Just suck my cock already, would you?_

"- except for how badly you're lying to yourself about wanting it."

 _I'm still waiting for you to prove you can do something useful with your mouth, Spencer._

"So, don't you _dare_ try to paint me as some sort of predator who waited until you were vulnerable before I pounced. I made the fuck sure you wanted it, Lassie. I made _**sure**_ _._ "

 _Get on your knees, Spencer._

"I -"

 _Do it now._

"What I don't understand is why you're working yourself up like this. Aren't you supposed to be the logical one around here?" Spencer said, staring at him as if he were an idiot. "Use some damn logic."

"I – I'm sorry. I didn't mean – You're not…" Carlton trailed off.

Shawn sighed, his posture easing at the sort-of apology. "I know I'm not, Lassie."

"But there's nothing logical about this," the cop whispered, pressed against the wall, feeling small.

"Sure, there is. You have lusty feelings for me, thereby you logically act on them when opportunity arises," Shawn shrugged, rolling his neck, the touch of humor in his voice letting Lassiter know his rage had abated.

"I – maybe..."

Carlton was puzzled. He knew the statement was true, but not why, which bothered him greatly.

"You love manhandling me as much as I love groping you, otherwise you wouldn't do it so damn often, would you?" the psychic said, getting to the heart of the matter.

Much as he wanted to, Carlton couldn't deny it.

Why was it that it took being drunk and chastised for him to begin to understand himself with such sobering clarity? As fucked up as he had known the night would turn out, this wasn't _remotely_ how he'd expected his evening to go, and he was frustrated with the fact that Spencer seemed to have inherited his mother's talent at cutting straight through to his core, even more-so by his being right.

How did he know what Carlton was feeling better than he knew himself?

"What did my mother say to you?"

Carlton looked up, shocked.

It was almost as if the fake psychic really _had_ read his mind.

"What did you just say?"

The psychic asked again, lacking hesitation.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Carlton replied, tacitly dodging the question.

Leaning against the wall, Spencer sighed.

"You know, for such a smart guy, you can be such a dumbass sometimes."

"Hey, I'm drunk," Carlton objected, trying not to laugh at the blasé comment, his head spinning from both the tequila and whirlwind of emotion. "Cut me some slack."

"I didn't see anybody make you steal my shot," Spencer said, and to the detective's dismay, slouched into a more relaxed position - an indicator he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. Even worse, the door opened again, a stranger sliding in to use the urinal, and there was nothing Carlton could do about that, either.

Hoping the man would make a quick exit, Carlton looked at Shawn and shook his head, but Shawn looked back, brattishness scrawled across his face as he continued.

"Well, I didn't!"

The man turned to look at them and Carlton shot him a glare that would've had him in prison, were it possible looks could kill. Startled, the stranger took a step back and wisely decided against washing his hands, zipping from the room with both vim and vigor.

Carlton turned back to Shawn.

"I wouldn't have had to drink so much if you hadn't been such a damn embarrassment on stage, Spencer!"

"You know you loved it, Lassie," the psychic scoffed. "You're just getting off topic. What did my mother tell you? It was obviously important."

"How do you _know_ that?" Carlton asked obtusely, ignoring that which he couldn't deny.

The fraud laughed, gesturing to his head with his hand. "Psychic, hello!"

"Fuck off, Spencer," the cop replied casually, and failing to pay attention to what he was doing, leaned on the toilet seat, immediately pulling himself away once he realized what he'd done. "Seriously, why do you think your mother has anything to do with anything?"

"Becaaaaaause," Shawn drawled, looking smug - an expression Carlton wished he could wipe off the man's face. "Prior to talking to my mommy, you spent two years happily manhandling me with exactly zero inclination to shove your tongue or any other body part down my throat. Post mommy? Well… let's just say you taste good, Lassie."

Shawn smiled lecherously, and Carlton turned red and muttered.

"Yeah, but I _have_ pictured my foot up your ass."

"What was that?" Shawn said, leaning in with his hand cupping his ear, pretending not to hear what the detective had said.

"I said," Carlton said, speaking up, feeling the flush creep down his neck. "If I remember correctly, you're the one who introduced tongue."

"Been thinking of it much?" Spencer snarked, sticking his tongue out in mockery.

"Bite me, Spencer."

"You wish," he replied. "Besides, that's beside the point. In fact, the point is here," Shawn lifted a finger to indicate, then another about an inch away, "and this is where you are! See?"

Carlton looked down and sighed.

He wished so very much that he had left early.

That he hadn't come at all - both literally and figuratively.

That he wasn't cornered in a bathroom stall by the man who had just given him the best blowjob of his life.

 _What is my world coming to?_ he thought in mild horror.

Spencer continued.

"That afternoon, the one after you did your last psych evaluation – you were already riled up before I got there. Why?"

"I don't know."

"I call bullshit. Don't be the cinnamon on my toast crunch, Lassie," the psychic said, and grabbed Carlton by the lapels, pulling him up the wall onto his feet. He brushed the detective off, and Carlton teetered, unprepared for the action. "Why do you keep doing this? Dude, do you really hate yourself this much?"

Carlton stumbled, the question cuffing him upside the back of his head, and he leaned into the corner to catch himself as Shawn stepped in a little closer.

"You got scared when I taunted you about kissing boys. Did you just discover that you weren't straight?" the psychic asked.

"I don't -"

"It's okay, Lassie," Shawn reassured, running his hand along Carlton's arm. Carlton turned his head to watch, envisioning the energy that made him tingle leaving the man's fingers and rushing along his skin. "Being bisexual doesn't mean anything changes about you. You're still the same Lassie as you were before."

"She said – not bi – something called pan -" Carlton stuttered, looking at the ground and feeling more vulnerable than he'd been when his pants were undone. He couldn't even begin to fathom how he had gotten himself into this situation. "Why am I even having this conversation with you?"

" _You_ kissed _me_ at the station," Spencer insisted, pointing his finger in the middle of the cop's chest. Carlton's skin burned beneath the touch. " _You_ kissed _me_ in the car. _You_ also asked _me_ to wrap _my_ mouth around _your_ very hard cock, to which _I_ happily complied. So why are you still trying to deny there's something between us?"

"I don't, I can't -" the detective protested weakly.

"Can't what, Lassie? Can't be happy?" Spencer asked, eyebrow arched as he cut to the quick. "Can't bring yourself to have some fun? Can't admit you want this just as much as I do?"

"How much do you want this?" Carlton stuttered with eyes wide, terrified of the answer. " _Why_ do you want this? I don't understand -"

"Dammit, Lassie! You're super smart _and_ incredibly sexy. You're loyal as hell, you handle a gun like no other, and those beautiful blue eyes of yours make me cream my jeans. Seriously. I need a new pair of panties with every angry glare," Shawn replied. "What's not to understand?"

Carlton groaned, his body betraying him as he sagged against Spencer's shorter frame, his arms wrapping around Shawn's shoulders at his own behest.

"I just can't do this," he mumbled against the slightly sweaty skin of the other man's neck.

"Why not?" the psychic said, catching him and pulling away to kiss him gently. "What's wrong with this?"

Carlton felt the heat begin to pool in his groin and moaned, his pleasure causing him equal amounts of pain.

He couldn't let this happen, not again.

He shouldn't have let it happen the first time.

He had to put a stop to this. Right now.

Meanwhile, Shawn licked at his lip, body pressed into his like they were glued together.

"Don't deny it, Lassie. Try it," the psychic teased, planting another barely-there kiss on the detective's lips. "We could have so much fun if you'd only let us be together..."

 _Be together._

That was the phrase that did it.

Already tough enough to cope without the additional strain of feelings _,_ Carlton was freaked out by his almost primal lust for Spencer _._

The idea of an actual relationship with the man _terrified_ him. He, the man who had taken down crime syndicates, was more fearful of the prospect of something real than anything he'd been afraid of in his entire life. He didn't even know if that was what Spencer had meant, but the thought of being out, being seen in public for who he truly was - having to admit it to anyone else, let alone himself - it made him almost hysterical. He had spent his entire adult life sure of who he was and what he wanted and now he was neither.

He was _neither._

He just knew that these days, his blood sang whenever Spencer was around.

Knew his skin warmed against his will.

His thoughts grew fuzzy.

His heart soared.

He had hope.

Hope for something more.

A something more he didn't know if he truly wanted.

One he wasn't even sure he deserved.

He hated it.

He hated it so much.

"Get your whore lips off me!" he lashed out, pushing Spencer off him in a panic, that sick feeling creeping back in. "I'm not doing this. I don't want to be _together_ with you, Spencer. Not here. Not like this - not at all!"

Shawn hit the wall, skull cracking against the steel. He slid a little before catching himself, and dazed, he looked up, eyes ablaze with indignation as they attempted to refocus.

"Yeah, well the creamy dessert you left in my belly says otherwise, asshole," the psychic spat acerbically, his hand flying to his head as he checked for damage, tears welling up in the corner of his eyes.

Carlton looked away and snarled, unable to witness the results of his destruction. "You're disgusting. You're crude and rude and the fact that I just let you do that to me makes me sick."

All lies, but he spoke the words anyway, needing to create distance and knowing they would do the trick. He saw the crestfallen look on Spencer's face out of the corner of his eye as the words registered, Shawn's ire instantly turning into hurt and disappointment.

He hated himself for that, too.

"You're such a fucking asshole, Lassie," Shawn said, body and voice both shaking as he tried to control his emotions. "I said I'm sick of this shit and I meant it. We did it _together_. You're just as complicit in this as I am, and you know it."

Carlton was furious the fraud in front of him kept challenging him, refusing to let him hide. It was bad enough he had to talk about this stuff with his shrink, he didn't need to be having this conversation with Spencer as well.

Or at all.

Certainly not in a bar bathroom and certainly not after _that._

Frustration overtook him, and Carlton found himself barely able to stand, let alone think. He sighed as claustrophobia crept in, and desperate in his desire to remove himself from the current narrative, he moved towards the entrance of the stall.

"It was a mistake," the cop insisted, lying through his teeth.

"You keep saying that, but it keeps happening," the psychic fought back.

And it was true. It kept happening, and Carlton kept starting it, finding himself unable to stay away and even less able to figure out why.

They glared at each other, the silence stretching for what seemed like forever before Spencer spoke again.

"You know what, _detective_?" he snapped suddenly, words dripping with disdain. "Take as long as you want to figure out your shit. I am so over this melodrama."

Carlton was taken aback as the psychic continued.

"I've got enough crap to deal with. You're just bringing me down," Shawn said, turning on his heel and shoving the detective aside as he stalked out of the room.

Carlton hit the wall, not as hard as Shawn had, and unnerved by Spencer's reaction, his jaw fell to the floor. He stared at the man's departure, his eyes greedily drinking him in as he walked away, like this time seeing him would be the last. But Shawn surprised him when he reached the door then stopped, his fingers barely brushing the handle, head turning to look at Carlton one final time.

Shawn's eyes were sad, his voice as he spoke even sadder.

"I tried, Lassie. I really did. But I am not going to fight your battle for you. I _can't._ If you're too stupid to get out of your own damn way, I have to take the hint and move on with my life."

He paused, and they locked eyes, both men near tears.

"I don't want to, Lassie. I _have_ to."

And without another word, that's exactly what he did.

* * *

Shawn hadn't just left the bathroom, he'd torn out of the bar like a bat out of hell without a word to anyone, leaving Gus to pay the tab like usual, only this time more confused. Radiating a rare mix of rage and sorrow, he'd blown past the table, refusing to slow down even long enough to acknowledge his friends as they'd called out for him.

"What do you think that was about?"

Juliet turned, raising an eyebrow at McNab.

"No idea. Didn't you say Carlton was sick? Maybe he threw up all over Shawn."

"I don't think so…" Gus disagreed, staring at the door his best friend had just stormed through. "Shawn wouldn't get that upset over vomit. Not unless it got in his hair, and I didn't see any. Nor did the Super Sniffer smell any. It's gotta be something else."

Juliet cocked her head, considering. "You think they got in a fight?"

"They seemed fine while I was in there," McNab offered. "I mean, Lassiter shouted at me to get out, but he yells all the time, so..." he shrugged, his sentence trailing off when his wife laid a reassuring hand on his arm.

Gus knocked over his chair as he and Juliet both stood, a touch of fear and trepidation on both of their faces.

A loaded and screaming Lassiter was dangerous, they both knew. And Shawn was the most easy-going guy ever, so if he left on a warpath, something was very, _very_ wrong. Realistically, anything could've just happened, and for the good of all involved, they needed to find out what, quick.

Gus threw some cash down on the table for their share, grabbing his jacket and slinging it over his shoulders. He was worried that he knew exactly what had gone on and really hoped his guess was off-base, though the sinking feeling in his stomach told him otherwise.

"I gotta go after him. Sorry to cut the night short, guys" he said, meaning it. Up until then, it had been a wonderful time, and he was sorry to see the evening end on such terms.

"He can't have gotten far on foot," Juliet said. "I'll go see if I can get anything from Lassiter, maybe pour him into a cab."

"I don't envy your job, sister. See you around."

The blonde nodded as the man departed, a worried look on her face as she watched him go.

She didn't envy her job either.

Gus found Shawn a few blocks away, sitting on a park bench beneath a flickering streetlight, looking out at the ocean and oblivious to the world around him.

"What am I doing with my life, Gus?" Shawn sighed as his friend approached, his voice disturbingly downtrodden. "Like… what even _is_ my life right now?"

Gus sidled up to him, stopping in front of the bench to cast a shadow upon Shawn, who either didn't notice or didn't care.

"What happened back there, Shawn? You tore out of the bar like Hurricane Spencer. We're all worried something bad happened. McNab said Lassie was being an asshole…?"

Shawn laughed, more bark-like than human, and shook his head when he noticed that he and Lassie both reacted like angry animals when distressed. It was another unnecessary knife to the heart and the last thing he needed.

"Yeah, you could say that. Not to McNab though," he said, slowly swinging his feet beneath him, watching as the toes of his sneakers barely scraped the ground. "Lassie was just being his usual jerk-face self to McNab. Nothing to worry about there."

"So, what happened, then?" Gus asked as he sat.

Shawn groaned, wanting to revisit what had just occurred almost less than he'd wanted to hear Lassie's hateful words in the first place. It was too painful, and he couldn't believe he'd been stupid enough to let it happen. He should have known Lassie wasn't past his bullshit, but he'd just been so damn excited he'd ignored all the signs. A feeling of defeat washed over him and he dropped his head into his hands, audibly wincing when injured wrist met battered skull, reminding him of both their existence and his abject failure.

Gus raised an eyebrow at the sound.

"Shawn, what did you do? Why are you hurt?" he paused, voice lowering. "What happened?"

Shawn looked at him, a dark storm raging in his hazel eyes.

"I don't wanna know, do I?" Gus asked, taken aback by the torrent of emotion flashing across his friend's face.

"No," Shawn admitted. "But I'm gonna tell you the whole sordid story anyway. I'm gonna tell you so you can tell me _exactly_ how stupid I am and how very badly I need to move on with my life."

Gus sighed, and threw his arm around his buddy.

"How'd we get to be so lucky?"

* * *

Juliet knocked on the door to the men's bathroom, wishing she had asked McNab whether it was a single stall situation or not, unwilling to stick her head in without the information.

"Carlton?" she called, stepping back when a beautiful behemoth of a man walked out, nearly bumping into her and making her hope Carlton had his shit together so she could go make a new friend, her relationship with Luntz on the fritz as it was.

 _Damn_ , she thought. _I wonder what he presses?_

"Oh, sorry," the Golden God said as he stepped around her, his European accent making her weak in the knees. "You must want the other guy in there. I don't think he's having a good night."

She blinked, shaking herself out of her reverie and cursing Carlton for finding a way to suck the fun out of everything. "He's alone? The room is empty other than him, I mean?"

The man nodded his assent.

"Thanks," she said, and pushed the door open to find her partner sitting on the closed lid of a can with the stall door half open, head in hands as he muttered to himself.

"Carlton?"

He looked up and she saw his eyes were blurry, almost like he'd been crying, though she knew he'd never admit it if he were. Before he opened his mouth, she asked again;

"Carlton, are you okay? What happened?"

Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he scowled at her, and her heart broke to see it, the act reminiscent of a small child in pain. She'd never known her partner to carry such emotion before, and knew he'd hate himself for letting it show.

"O'Hara? What are you doing here? This is a men's room, get out!" he snapped at her, though she refused to take it personally. He flung his arm towards the door, obviously hoping he could shoo her away, and that she ignored, too.

"What happened, Carlton?" she asked again, softer this time as she approached her clearly miserable partner.

Juliet wanted to help any way she could. But based on the look on Carlton's face, she wasn't sure there was anything to be done. She also wasn't sure a cab-ride home alone was the best of ideas, and so resigned herself to joining him. She'd never be able to live with herself without seeing him to bed safe, even if it meant tossing him fully clothed on top of his mattress and passing out on his couch, regardless of how little she may want to.

That's what partners were for, after all, and she took a moment to congratulate herself on the cosmic brownie-points she was about to collect.

 _What could have possibly happened between them to have put him in such a state?_

Carlton groaned and, clearly unwilling or unable to talk about it, buried his face back in his hands. Juliet sighed, wondering if Gus was having better luck on his end of things. She would have to call and ask him in the morning, if she managed to survive the night, that was.

"Just get me home, O'Hara," the senior detective moaned, turning a whiter shade of pale than she thought possible and making her hope he wasn't about to hurl in her hair again. Once was more than enough in a single year's time. "I just need this night to end."

Sympathizing, she reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. With the other, she offered to help him up, and he looked at her in shock while flinching at the gesture so reminiscent of what Spencer had done not long before, not that she was aware of the fact.

"Carlton?" she asked again, concern etched across her face. He glanced up at her and softened at the look, apologizing.

"Sorry, O'Hara," he said, graciously taking her hand to stand. "I know; I'm the worst partner ever. Can we _please_ just get me home?"

"Sure, Carlton," she said, trying to sound reassuring and hoping his house keys were in his jacket pocket. She really didn't want to have to search through his pants to find them, he clearly incapable of doing so himself. "Whatever you need, partner."

"Thanks," Carlton said, and looked at her pathetically as he continued, his head resting on her shoulder as they left the room together.

"I'll be fine as soon as I'm home. I just need to wake up from this nightmare."


	12. Losing My Religion

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first eleven are up now; look for the new Chapter Thirteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Losing My Religion**

 ** _*This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 9: Christmas Joy_**

 ** _** The accompanying song is Losing My Religion by REM_**

"I can't stop thinking about him!"

Carlton stormed into the room, stopping only at the startled look on Dr. Foster's face. He was supposed to have arrived a few minutes later than he had, but finding himself too distressed to wait, he'd rudely barged right in.

It wasn't something he did often, if ever, but because the hour only ran fifty minutes, he knew she'd be alone. Seeing her reaction, however, he realized how boorish he was being and made a note to apologize for his obtrusiveness at the end of their session. Having been raised the right way, Carlton knew to show up early - on time was late, after all - and on a normal day would have waited for the receptionist to direct him in.

If only it had been a normal day.

"Detective Lassiter," Dr. Foster said, brushing her long red hair over her shoulder as she stood to welcome him. "It's nice to see you again. To whom are you referring, exactly?"

He glared.

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly who I'm talking about."

And he knew that she did, but that she was also going to make him say it, her refusal to play games one of the many reasons he liked her. Thankfully, she ignored his brusque demeanor and moved to her comfy chair, gesturing for him to sit on the chaise across from it.

He continued to stand.

"Am I to assume we speak of Mr. Spencer?" she said, just like he'd expected.

Of course, they were talking about Spencer.

They were always talking about Spencer these days and it infuriated him. Because if he wasn't with Spencer, he was thinking about Spencer. And when he wasn't thinking about Spencer, he was paying to dissect why he spent so much of his day with his thoughts on the man.

The entire situation was stupid, and he hated the whole thing.

"Who else?" he exclaimed, cracking the knuckles of his right hand with his thumb in frustration, feeling the tension inside him build. "The bastard won't get out of my head!"

Foster ignored that outburst, too, and grabbed his file from her desk, flipping to the information she had gathered from the week prior. Carlton shifted in place, waiting patiently for her next words.

"Him or what he said?" she asked.

"Excuse me?"

Carlton looked at her incredulously.

"I'm sorry, you are correct; I should have spoken with more clarity," she said, and leaned forward to directly address him. "Are you thinking specifically of him or rather is it that you're contemplating the things he said to you?"

He paused at that, wondering what the difference was and what effect it would have if he asked.

"Him! What he said; what we did! What does it matter?" the detective groaned, trying to force thoughts of Shawn's lips – Spencer's lips – and the things they had done from his mind and failing.

Trying to scrub Shawn's words and the hurt on his face from his mind and failing.

"Hmm..."

"Hmm?! What the hell does that mean?" he asked, back rigid and body tense as he struggled to stay calm. He was starting to get pissed off – was already pissed off – and that just upset him more, having hoped this session would be the thing to calm him down after a week spent raging. "I don't pay you to postulate. Fix me, woman! Get the gay out of me!"

His doctor glared at him from over her glasses.

"My name is not 'woman,' detective, but Dr. Foster, and I would appreciate it if you would use it when addressing me," she said sternly, making Carlton feel small. "Furthermore, we both know that is not what you are here for, nor is it possible."

Carlton looked properly chastened. He couldn't believe this was what his life was right now, first assaulting Spencer and now lashing out at a woman he respected. He was better this and he felt his ears begin to burn as shame kicked in, embarrassed that he had become this person.

She shook her head and tsked. "Get the gay out of you, indeed. Absolutely ludicrous."

Abashed over his outburst, and despite his plan to ask forgiveness later, he caved under her disappointed gaze. It wasn't often he felt this way and he hated the fact that ever since that night with Spencer, he'd found his carefully cultivated grip on self-control slipping.

"Doctor, I'm sorry," he said. "It won't happen again."

Foster crossed her legs at the ankle, adjusting herself to sit more comfortably, her posture indicating an acceptance of his apology.

"Very well," she responded, and left it at that while Carlton stared at his feet in disgrace, looking up when she continued to speak.

"Now, I understand that you're upset. But it seems to me that this anger is misplaced," she began with a curt nod, at which he raised a questioning brow, confused by the statement. "And although it seems your most recent incident with Mr. Spencer has caused you to regress back into a very strong state of denial, your anger in no way indicates your being broken in any manner whatsoever."

He didn't believe that, and shifting in place, asked for clarification, knowing it was a thing he needed and a thing she would give.

"What do you mean?"

"Anger can be caused by things that have made you feel shameful," she replied. "Or 'less than'. You said that not only have you never truly known your father due to his lack of presence in your life, but that your mother came out when you were fourteen, yes?"

Carlton folded his arms across his chest as if the action could deflect the discomfort he felt at the turn in the conversation.

"Yes, just after Lauren was born," he said, his temper simmering as he mentioned his younger sister. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Puberty is difficult for most young men," Dr. Foster explained plainly, setting her papers in her lap as she locked eyes with him. "Exceedingly difficult for you, lacking a male role model as you did. Your ideas about sexuality were also being rewritten by those closest to you at the same instance as they were being formed, which clearly caused plenty of confusion."

She looked at her notes again, checking something before continuing.

"You were bullied for lacking a father figure," she added, her accent starting to irritate him, irrational frustration bubbling just beneath his surface. He knew it wasn't something that could be helped and that upset him too, just like the way he'd been raised and his feelings about Spencer were also things completely out of his control, much as he may wish otherwise. "Did those same people target you for having a lesbian mother?" she asked. "Do you think it's possible the shame you felt in regards to these occurrences has perhaps bled into your own feelings of self-worth?"

He looked at her, inhaling sharply at the unexpected question, his knees feeling weak and finally forcing him to sit.

"Why do you say that?"

"Fear of homosexuality tends to be a consequence of narrowly defined sex roles and rigid gender identity," she said. "In your case, having not known your father, perhaps you felt it necessary to be the man of the house before you understood the hetero-normative implications attached to doing so."

He twitched; the statement resonating far more than he wanted it to, his leg bounced beneath him as it expended anxious energy, a tick the doctor had pointed out just that past week.

"Add to that a mother who seemingly abandoned what you thought was the chance at a traditional family to commit her life to someone of the same gender and it's no wonder you repressed your desires for so long," she stated. "I imagine the fact that she - in your adolescent mind - rejected what you had thought of as a 'normal' life has made you cleave all the more tightly to the rigid constructs of your assumed heterosexuality."

Carlton stared, a stupid look upon his face though he understood her completely.

He'd always felt that something was lacking, something integral to his family unit - though, it had taken his younger self a while to realize what it was. He saw how normal was portrayed in the media, saw it daily in his schoolmate's lives, so from a very young age, Carlton had tried to fill what he had thought was a hole in theirs.

He had wanted to be everything for his mother; wanted to make sure that she had everything that he thought she deserved - all without ever understanding that she should be taking care of him instead of the other way around. It wasn't until she had introduced him to Althea and explained their relationship that he'd realized he was never likely to achieve the normal he so desperately craved.

Storming out of the house in a fit of rage and disappearing for two days, he'd hitched his way to Old Sonora, almost getting his hide tanned by Hank Mendel when the sheriff had found him wandering along the side of the road a few miles out of town just the other side of dusk.

"Binky," the old man had said, grasping the young runaway by the shoulder, the night softly settling around them. "It don't matter none what your ma does. It matters what you do. If she's happy, you should be happy for her. We all gotta live the life we're given and we're all doing it to the best of our abilities."

Carlton glowered, not wanting to hear it. He had run to the old sheriff for comfort and commiseration. The comfort he got; curled up on a cot in the jail cell, he held a cup of cocoa in hand, a warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders as the closest thing he'd ever had to a father called his mother to let her know he was okay.

The commiseration was lacking.

"She doesn't care about me, why should I care about her?" he'd pouted, sullenly. "It's bad enough being me without getting crapped on for mom being a big queerdo. Why can't my life just be normal?"

"Now, Binky, don't be like that," Hank had chided. "Normal ain't a magic place you can teleport to, like in those science fiction books of yers. It's not something anyone has, if you really think about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Ya think this is normal?" Hank swept his hands around the room. "I'm an unmarried forty-year-old man sittin' in a jail cell with a fourteen-year-old boy. If this was Kentucky, I'd be hung from the rafters - even though there's nothing wrong goin' on here."

Carlton looked at him blankly. "I still don't get it."

"You didn't have a daddy, so it's natural to want one. And I'm happy to fill in from time to time… but this ain't normal. Me being out here running this backwater, podunk little town all by myself ain't normal." The old man cocked an eyebrow. "You heard 'bout Lawnchair Larry?"

Carlton had nodded.

"That seem normal to you, boy?"

He shook his head.

"That's right. That's cuz it ain't. Nothing is - normal's just a concept that don't really exist in life, kid."

He had let that percolate on the drive home, glad Hank had offered the ride instead of having to be trapped in a tin can listening to his mother rant at him for his inconsiderate reaction to her news. Instead of stopping him in his tracks though, the thought of normalcy being an unreachable goal had just spurred him further on down his path of silent self-destruction, making him determined to try that much harder to fix what he had thought was broken.

"This would explain why after the two most recent liaisons with Mr. Spencer, you threw yourself at both Ms. Dunlap and Ms. Guster," Dr. Foster continued, interrupting his thoughts. "You were trying to convince yourself that you were strictly attracted to women. You hurt Mr. Spencer for forcing you to consider otherwise."

Carlton squirmed in his chair, both appreciating how upfront she was and disliking how quick she'd gotten to the point.

"In finally being honest about her sexuality, you felt your mother had betrayed your chance at normalcy," she added. "That would thereby cause you to stifle your own sexual inclinations. Perhaps you feel that admitting you are not straight is the same thing as giving up on what you thought your life would be? If so, you would essentially view it the same as failure."

"I don't desire this!" he protested, overwhelmed as Dr. Foster echoed what he knew to be true in his heart. He had tried so hard for so long to craft a life he'd thought worth living, every meticulously planned action having blown up in his face but his tenure as Head Detective, the dissolution of his marriage to a woman he thought he'd loved the worst of it. But what if he'd never really loved Victoria at all? He had met and married her straight out of the academy, after all, a well-to-do wife the next thing on his personal checklist of success. What if that meant their entire relationship had been a lie, not one of hers, but one of his own devising? Could it be possible that he'd stifled his feelings because he was too scared to live a truth he'd spent his entire life repressing?

"What kind of man would want to feel like this?" he continued, near-exploding, his hand threading through the hairs at the nape of his neck to prevent it from clenching into a fist.

"Fear of homosexuality also tends to mask one's true fear of emasculation," she said softly, driving to the crux of the matter. "Considering how we live in a society that promotes toxic masculinity, many people believe that there is a direct link from homosexuality to both one's masculinity and femininity."

She paused, allowing time for the detective to process before finishing her statement.

"There really is no basis for this thinking, however."

Carlton took a much-needed moment with that.

Was it possible that his aggressive alpha male personality had developed as a direct result of his attempt to mask his sexuality? Because of his desperate desire to have a regular life? He didn't want to consider it, but with the evidence presented to him like this, it was seeming highly likely.

"Not only is there no correlation between the two, neither are compromised. Nor is one's worth diminished," Foster said matter-of-factly, Carlton's time for self-reflection cut short. "In fact, Carl Jung proved through dream analysis that conscious integration of both masculinity and femininity is a crucial aspect of psychological wellness."

He just stared at her and she stared back, until -

"So, you're telling me I'm psychologically unwell?" he asked bluntly, clearly unimpressed but knowing it was true.

Dr. Foster stifled a highly unprofessional snicker, taken off-guard by the flat look on his face and matching tone of his voice.

"Well, in a nutshell, yes. But you're still very much not broken," she reaffirmed, gathering control of herself as she rifled through her papers once again. "Now, you said that after each interaction with Mr. Spencer you were overtaken with shame and confusion, yes?"

"Yes," he answered begrudgingly, dropping his gaze to the carpet as he made the admission.

"Why?"

Carlton stopped to think before responding, his eyes flitting back up to hers at the question.

"I don't know. Isn't that what you're supposed to help me figure out?" he snapped in frustration, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, his voice softening once he realized the vehemence with which he had spoken.

"Look, it doesn't matter anyhow. It's not happening again," he insisted.

"Why not?" Foster asked him in return, refusing to let the subject drop. "Let's put the feelings of shame aside for a second. You have - on multiple occasions - expressed fulfillment in the act of the intimacy itself. And, from what you have told me, he seems to have felt the same."

Forgetting his manners again, Carlton shot to his feet, his voice cracking. "You know what - I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't really care what your stupid Kinsey scale or your silly little notes tell you."

He waved dismissively at the notepad in her lap.

Dr. Foster sighed.

"You wouldn't be here were that true, detective. Nor are bisexuality and pansexuality the same as homosexuality. Please sit down," she said, gesturing to his seat again. "We've discussed this before. The textbook definition of pansexuality is the ability to be sexually, spiritually or emotionally attracted to someone regardless of gender. Being able to form connections based on one's personality and character rather than what genitalia they might have. You know this," she stressed. "And based on what you've told me of your discussions with your prior psychologist, this is the term to which you best relate, regardless of your admittance of such."

"Well, I don't care," he said, stubbornly. "If I say I'm straight then that's what I am, dammit." Carlton ground his teeth as he reclaimed his place on the chaise, pausing before exclaiming, "And proud of it!"

Foster shook her head, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear as she addressed him.

"First of all, I would very kindly like to remind you that in these types of situations, exorbitant pride is usually a thin veneer pasted atop one's festering shame - " she said, her tone clipped, clearly nearing wit's end, " - which we have previously discussed as having occurred in your regards on **multiple** occasions."

He slouched further into his seat, wishing he could will the awkward situation away, slowly realizing that deflection was getting him nowhere and that she was in the process of psychologically handing his ass to him on a silver platter.

Foster continued.

"Secondly, I would then like to echo Mr. Spencer's query as to why you keep finding yourself drawn together in increasingly explicit manners if you are, in fact, as heterosexual as you claim."

Looking at him point-blank, she paused for effect, her gaze unwavering and unapologetic as she rhythmically tapped her pen against her papers.

"Have you any ideas?"

Santa Barbara's Head Detective glowered, a sullen look upon his face.

"Because he's a pervert with no self-control?" he offered hopefully.

"I don't believe that. You don't believe that either," she said, eyebrow arched as she held her ground. "Carlton, you may not be homosexual, but you have to accept that you are queer −"

He shuddered at the word.

"− and carrying some intense internalized homophobia, clearly due to associating aspects of homosexuality with some of the more negative aspects of your childhood. Your actions and choices should be based on your desires - your id and ego - but you seem to be basing yours off of psychologically damaging preconceived notions and letting your super-ego drive the bus instead. My job is to help you change that."

"How?" Carlton asked, feeling defeated and hoping she had a life preserver to throw his way, the raging maelstrom of emotion he was trapped in threatening to drag him under.

"Well, that's up to you," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

She sat up straighter, her look intent.

"Some people protect themselves from messy complexities by being quick to agree, but they're reluctant to explore more deeply," she said, gesturing to him with a tip of the hand, a gesture which forced him to acknowledge he'd been guilty of doing exactly that in the past. "They will sidestep suggestions - try to assert their awareness - yet will continue to lack proclivity due to the fact that though they may be intellectually committed to the idea of growth, they are unwilling to take concrete steps to promote it."

"Meaning?" he asked, waiting for the catch.

"You have to be willing to do the work to be happy."

Shawn's voice suddenly echoed in his head.

"Can't what, Lassie? Can't be happy? Can't bring yourself to have some fun? Can't admit you want this just as bad as I do?"

"So, how badly do you want this, Carlton?" Dr. Foster asked, her English accent cutting through to his core. "How badly do you want to be happy?"

Carlton's breath caught in his chest.

There it was.

That was the catch.

Happy...

He didn't even know what that was anymore.


	13. Red Rain

**Don't freak when you see things have disappeared. I'm in the process of rewriting so it flows better due to my 9 month break messing things up. I apologize for the wait and confusion, and promise the new versions will very much make it up to you; I just don't want to deal with the clusterfuck that it was before, so I deleted the old versions. I know that means losing my views and my reviews, and while I love and appreciate you for them all, I'd rather have well written work posted than a bunch of hits for work I think is shit. I can do better, and _you_ deserve better. The first thirteen are up now; look for the new Chapter Fourteen soon. You can also find me on AO3 under the same pen name.**

* * *

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Red Rain**

 _ ***This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 10: Six Feet Under the Sea**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Red Rain by Peter Gabriel**_

* * *

Shawn couldn't get the older detective out of his head no matter how hard he tried.

And, oh, how he had tried.

Sadly, the psychic's go-to plan of distraction hadn't worked worth shit. His first idea - an ill-advised attempt to reignite the spark with Gus's sister Joy - had been bound to end in conflagration regardless of the result, and knowing so in advance, he wasn't sure why he had even bothered.

When that had failed, the detective still lingering in his mind, he had agreed to take on this ridiculous case.

Having both the benefit of a pretty blonde to flirt with and the bonus of being able to placate his best friend/partner at the same time, he figured he had nothing to lose. Also, he owed Gus, who insisted he was already over their 'familial debacle'. He knew better, though; his buddy was going to be sore about it for quite some time.

Still, stupid as the case was, he _did_ appreciate that his pal was trying to get him to rise to the challenge, both in his romantic pursuit of the attractive conservationist _and_ in solving the murder of the sea lion. Gus had the brilliant idea that if Shawn flirted with somebody – preferably someone _not_ his older sister – it would provide the perfect distraction to ease his woes and help him forget about the ornery lawman. It was a good idea, and he was impressed with Gus for thinking of it.

His libido usually the perfect thing to distract him, he was surprised by how spectacularly the tactic was failing him this time around.

Though April was pretty and the banter fun, his heart wasn't really in it.

She'd smile, and he'd remember Lassie's face awash with joy as he ribbed Shawn down by the river. Shawn had been awestruck, utterly spellbound by the glee in the detective's gaze, his blue eyes crinkling in delight as he happily mocked the psychic.

He would watch April's mouth when she tossed him back some sass, trying to figure out why he didn't want to kiss her when he by all means should. Instead, he recalled the firmness of Lassiter's lips pressed against his own - his subconscious offering up an answer he didn't want to consider.

He would smell the woman's perfume and flash back to the scent of Lassie's musk mixing with faint remnants of the day's cologne; how he'd breathed him in deeply, his face burrowed in the crook of the cop's neck as his hands freely roamed.

He rifled through Labayda's desk, forcing back memories of Carlton's hands in his hair.

 _Nobody_ touched his hair. He never let anyone touch him there.

But Lassie didn't ask. He just did.

And the psychic didn't want to admit how much he had enjoyed it.

Focus pulled away from his task, he remembered Lassiter's long fingers slipping though his thick mane and he shivered, his scalp tingling at the reminder of how he'd been gripped hard and pulled close.

Because it wasn't just the detective's touch that did it for him.

No, it was the slightly salty taste of sweat slicked skin. The sound of his voice as he sighed in satisfaction. The bliss on his face as he'd _finally_ turned off his brain and allowed himself to be happy. Happy with Shawn, however briefly.

 ** _Those_** were the thoughts that crept into his brain at the most inopportune times.

Haunted by the look of anguish Lassie had worn when he had walked out of the restroom and left the man sitting there, he had been struggling to cast the image from his mind for days. He didn't think the cop had been aware his feelings were evident, but not only had they been, he had seen them, their intensity something he didn't think he'd ever forget.

War-torn, Carlton's face had been covered in conflicting emotions.

Shawn knew the cop was hurting and though it was clear that Lassie wanted him desperately and hated himself for it with equal fervor, that didn't excuse his behavior in the slightest. He was hurting, too and Lassiter was mostly at fault. Not completely, of course, because he wasn't stupid; he realized that the situation never would have occurred had he not coerced the detective like he had. But while he despised the fact that he was partially responsible for the cop's condition, he hadn't been lying when he said that he wasn't going to stick around to be the man's whipping boy, his pain in no way negated by Lassiter's own.

As much as he hadn't wanted to, he had meant it when he said it. And the truth of the statement hadn't lessened any since the time it had been spoken. So, still struggling from emotional whiplash, it really _was_ time for him to move on regardless of how Lassiter might feel about the matter.

Wasn't it?

He had made it perfectly clear after all, knowing that his opinion was the only one that could count, the cop being as conflicted as he was. He had to live his life and he knew he couldn't do that if he kept letting himself be jerked around. He also knew that torturing himself with thoughts of what had happened wasn't going to fix anything… so what was stopping him?

He just wasn't sure why progression had to be so damn hard, moving on not coming as naturally as he would have hoped. Distractions were supposed to be easy, after all, yet he continued to struggle, his thoughts lingering on his lust for the lawman. Maybe he just needed a better distraction, he thought. Maybe it was time to be daring - time to attempt a feat he'd been destined to perform since he was a child.

Maybe he needed to fulfill his lifelong dream of driving a dolphin!

Shawn knew you couldn't _actually_ drive one, of course. Really, he was hoping to stay on for a few seconds. Mostly, he'd be happy so long as he didn't drown. And though he wasn't totally sure what the punishment for grand-theft mammal was - not that it could _really_ be considered stealing if they never left the tank - with his luck, he'd wind up in cuffs.

Which would be the absolute _last_ thing he needed.

Mind you, if he _did_ get caught, he might be able to charm his way into a ban or perhaps a fine, if he was lucky. It wasn't the best option, he knew, but it was better than being stuck in a jail cell for the night, Lassie one floor above waiting to chew him out for his stupidity.

A sound bounced off the aquarium walls and he snapped back to attention, not wanting to get caught. He saw a beam flicker in the distance and the sound of someone coming, ran from what he assumed was a flashlight, his butt clenched and panic rising. The footsteps drawing nearer, he searched for an escape, his pulse racing as he looked for a way out. Finally, after a deep breath and a close call, he noticed the containers behind him and tucked himself into the smallest, sure the guard wouldn't bother to check, likely being both lazy and underpaid.

Getting found by Gus was another matter, however.

If anybody embodied the term _work-wife_ more, he would eat the raw fish he had just been caught holding. His buddy berated better than almost anybody, and Shawn begrudgingly gave him the bait as demanded, wondering why his bestie would claim to want him happy but deny him nonetheless.

Arm raised, ready to toss the herring to the chatterbox below, Gus was just raining all over his one-man wonder parade.

"Don't make a move!" a voice called, the light from the electric torch hitting the boys in the face.

 _Fuck._

They were caught.

"Put the fish down and nobody gets hurt!"

* * *

Lassiter looked stressed.

Of course, Lassie almost always looked stressed these days.

Shawn knew high strung people always seemed to age faster and wear their worries harder, but this was something he hadn't seen on the detective before and it bothered him; somehow both tense and deflated, Lassiter's usually bright blue eyes were both sharp with mania and clouded with self-doubt.

It was an odd combination on the older man, and he didn't like it one bit.

It made him wish he could help Lassie - made him wish they'd been friends enough before the incident that he could somehow help make things right. It also made him wish the word _Rocinante_ meant something to him, or at least that he had a legitimate case to offer the detective, knowing that Lassiter needed a distraction just as much as he did. Maybe even more.

The distraction he _did_ have to offer was _not_ the distraction the detective needed, however, and he knew it. Carlton required a reputation boost more than anything, the lack of respect he'd been getting around the office obviously wearing on him but solving the murder of a six-hundred-pound sea animal was just _not_ going to be the thing that did it. So, aware suggesting Lassie join their ridiculous case would likely result in a trip to triage, he did the opposite, desperately attempting to deter the detective - even going so far as to spell out Shabby's name and species in an attempt to dissuade the man while allowing him to retain a sliver of pride.

Of course, the stubborn man could not be discouraged and blundered his way into the investigation anyhow.

Shawn should be mad at Lassie.

He _was_ mad at Lassie. He was pissed, in fact, though he suppressed the feeling best he could, aware his anger would only add fuel to the other man's fire. Though it may not have been intentional, SBPD's Head Detective had been a bastard as of late, far more than usual and mostly towards Shawn. The psychic knew he didn't deserve it – not to that extent (or at all, really), Lassie's lashing out caused by conflicting emotions he refused to take responsibility for. Nor did he believe Lassiter deserved living in the hell he seemed to be residing in. But, as it was a hell of the cop's own creation, he found himself able to muster only so much sympathy.

He knew he was at least partially responsible for Lassie's minor nervous breakdown though, and because of that, he had done his best to keep his distance, worried his presence would paint him as a target for further abuse. Neither man needed an excess of animosity right now and Shawn was unwilling to carry the weight of Lassie's cognitive dissonance; the man was being torn apart and he worried he would eventually lash out, making their situation that much worse. It was something he wanted to avoid at all costs, still hoping that someday, they could heal the rift between them.

The usually straight-laced detective was slowly coming unraveled, and that made the psychic think that – in this instance, at least - he could be the bigger man. When the stress had first begun to take its toll, his spite had kicked in and he'd found Lassie losing it a little amusing, the detective clearly spiraling out of control as karma kicked in. But as Lassiter's self-torment had continued, picking up steam as his self-respect waned, his conscience kicked in, his heart breaking for a man he wished he could hate, the scene just becoming painful to watch. For everyone's sake, but Lassie's especially, he needed to find a way to make it stop.

Preferably now.

He cleared his throat and the detective turned his head to look at him.

"Listen, can you get a body exhumed?"

* * *

Sneaking onto the boat was no more dangerous than any of the other harebrained ideas Shawn had talked Gus into over the years, so he wasn't sure was his best friend was balking.

They had a clue and to follow it, they had to get on the boat.

It was that simple. What didn't he understand?

Not thinking it worth his time, he had resisted taking the case at first, but he had since come to find that focusing on it was the only thing keeping him from doing something stupid. What that stupid was, he wasn't quite sure, but it was probably best not to think about lest thinking lead to doing. Sick of the attitude and finding that being forced to deal with emotions from all sides was absolutely exhausting, he had already been uncharacteristically short with Lassiter during the necropsy and it seemed like maintaining a balance in their relationship – whatever that was – was going to be impossible, neither man understanding where they stood.

But it wasn't exactly like he could talk to Lassie about it, sure trying was another thing he could add to the list of actions that would get him shot.

And as for the case itself, the longer he and Gus stuck around to look, the sketchier things began to seem. Finding the bullets had been no surprise - or at least, no surprise to him, anyhow - and though he hadn't quite grasped the why of it yet, he had essentially pieced things together by then. So, with multiple theories forming, Shawn raised from his crouch, startled when he noticed the culprits on their way back to the boat.

 _Shit!_ he thought, opening the hatch in the floor and shoving Gus through after a quick whispered argument, their other ideas for escape nowhere near as feasible. Sliding in behind, he landed on top of his buddy, slamming the door shut with seconds to spare and dragging the netting behind him.

 _Well… this sucks,_ he sighed, reaching out to grab the flashlight as Gus squirmed beneath him uncomfortably.

The light flickered on and he pointed it at the ground, scrambling to avoid detection while still looking for a lead and frowning when the words _Rocinante_ and _Flight Plan_ became visible beneath the beam.

 _That was Lassiter's bust,_ he recalled, looking at the folder. _The one that made him the butt of all the jokes - the one that literally got away._

He wondered how pissed Lassie would be when he realized Shawn had yet again succeeded where he had failed. It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor was it likely to be the last, but the detective was on a hair-trigger these days and he was worried this might trip it. The case - which had started out as pure stupidity - had gotten _far_ too personal for Lassie far too fast, and there was just no guarantee as to how well-received the news would be, especially with Shawn being the one to share it.

Jolted from his thoughts, the psychic heard the engine start and knew he had to act fast.

Worried Lassiter would just ignore him, he decided to text Juliet instead.

 ** _solved crime! trapped in hull of smugglers boat goin out 2 c! ;)_** he typed, then hit send, hoping she wasn't too busy to read it.

Ignoring Gus' faux-offense to his JLo comparison, he noticed Shabby's transmitter tangled in the net and moved to grab it.

Gus wiggled and whined as he reached for it, which Shawn found annoying since none of this would be happening if it weren't for Gus in the first place, it being his idea to take on this investigation to begin with. He knew the situation they were in was less than ideal, of course, but it wasn't like he had planned the impromptu snuggle with his buddy, after all. Besides, this wasn't the worst they'd gotten themselves into by far, so Gus just needed to chill.

To take his mind off things, he let it wander – a technique his mother had taught him when he was a child. He couldn't quite remember what she had called it - only half-paying attention because Marissa Morgenstern had just walked by in a short skirt - but he knew it had something to do with free association and that it had worked for him before.

He chuckled to himself at the memory, thinking of how far he had managed to come and how much he had changed since then. Once upon a time, he was ogling the long legs of a pre-pubescent brace-face, and now he was taking on dangerous cases in order to stop lusting after Lassiter. Oh, how his world had turned.

Gus squirmed beneath him, rather inconveniently.

 _Lassiter…_ Shawn thought, the motion failing to distract him.

The man whose smile could light up a room. Ten rooms, as rare as it was.

Gus squirmed again.

The man whose lips promised something more when they kissed him.

Gus squirmed a third time.

The man who made him weak in the knees, even when he was on his knees.

He felt his pulse begin to race at the flash of memory and he twisted, trying to break contact with his buddy before things got awkward. But Gus continued to shift around and Shawn sighed, wishing he would just relax - maybe do some Lamaze breathing or something.

Because the last thing he needed to deal with right now

(at all)

(ever)

was Gus and _awkward_.

Grimacing, he pressed the button to turn the transmitter on, then sent another text to Juliet.

 ** _turn on labaydas laptop!_**

"Now all we do is wait."

* * *

Shawn poked his head out of the bunker, surprised to see a sea of concrete instead of one of water.

 _Fuck. We are so screwed._

He ducked back below, quickly confirming with Jules what she had already known.

Minutes later, they were ready to go, a new plan firmly in place and his big ball of bullshit ready to be aimed at the bad guys. All he needed to do was convince Gus that this would work, a task he was finding much more difficult than usual.

"Shawn, I don't think this is a good idea."

Shawn sighed. "I know that, buddy. You said it like three times now."

"Well that's because it's _not_."

He rolled his eyes at his pal. "It's fine. Why would it not be fine? It's a great plan!"

"Your plan is no plan!" Gus exclaimed, exasperated. "You're just gonna go out there and run your mouth –"

"Which has worked before," he interjected.

"Those dudes are worse dudes than the usual dudes who point guns at you, Shawn. _Guns,"_ Gus said, enunciating the point. "As in plural!"

Shawn really hoped he didn't get shot. Gus was right in that bad guys had a tendency to point their weapons at him, but he was sure he could hold these guys off long enough. Though he was too pretty to wear bullet wounds well, his plan of no plan would never stand a chance of succeeding if he never actually did it. So, tired of bickering and before his bestie got the chance to protest further, he smiled and popped out into the open, pulling Gus up with him.

Pistols pointed in his direction, he began to talk.

Talking was his special talent, he'd found early on in life.

If you could talk, you could talk and you could talk and you could talk and you could talk and sometimes, when you were good enough, you could talk a person in circles; confuse them and gain the upper hand for a moment - perhaps long enough to do some good.

It didn't even have to make sense. Sometimes it was better not to - just bamboozle and discombobulate.

Good thing that was his specialty.

In this case, though, honesty would do the trick.

He could tell that these guys were the kind of bad guys who wouldn't feel the matter closed until they knew what he knew. Not only what he knew, but _how_ he knew it. And if he could just keep talking long enough -

"Put it down!"

"Drop it! SBPD!"

"Stay right there!"

Lassie walked over, tucking his gun away as his colleagues put the cuffs on the culprits, a smug grin on his face.

"Saving your ass again, Spencer?" he said, clearly full of himself.

Shawn fist-bumped his best friend. He hated to burst the detective's bubble but _was_ glad he was getting to do it with good news. And if Lassie had a problem with the fact that he was the one who had figured it out? Well, he was just going to have to get over it. He planned on working with the police for a long time coming, and Carlton's inability to deal was neither Shawn's duck, nor his bottle. He was done walking on eggshells for the man and just hoped things would soon get as close as back to normal as they could be, all things considered.

"What are you talking about?" Lassiter asked, both indignant and confused.

"I'm helping you, "he replied. "I told you, it's a two-way street."

Lassie sputtered.

"Wait a minute... how did you -?"

Shawn smiled, lifting his hand to his head.

"A little bit of this -"

He lifted the other, delighting in the irritation that crossed Lassiter's face as he did so.

"- and a whole lot of that."

* * *

April walked in on Shawn whip-creaming Gus's desk.

Gus deserved it, dragging him into a ludicrous case that wound up meaning far more to him than it should have. It was ridiculous; he had stumbled across what he thought was the stupidest possible distraction from Lassiter and still wound up being led directly back to the man!

What were the odds?

He looked up, and having been caught can in hand, greeted her with a sheepish smile.

She looked great, so he told her so.

 _She really is a sweetheart,_ he thought as she told him about getting her job back and turning down Labayda's office. _Why shouldn't I give it a shot?_

Sure, he didn't feel a spark with her like he had with Lassie, or even how he had when he first met Jules, but maybe he had been too preoccupied to have given it a proper chance. It wasn't _her_ fault that he was coming off a torrid sort-of romance, after all. And if he really was going to get on with his life, wasn't she the perfect opportunity?

It wasn't like she was to blame for the fact that Shawn wasn't going to get to ride a dolphin, either, though he _had_ kind of been hoping she would be his in on the matter.

As she spoke, the psychic stood nervously, hands in his pockets, still unsure as to whether he was making the right decision. He knew he'd never know for sure until he made it, but that didn't make it feel any less like diving off a cliff, blindfolded and butt-naked.

"How 'bout dinner?" he asked her, taking the plunge. "You and me. A very dark restaurant. I'll bring some candles in case it's too dark; that's something I like to do."

She smiled. "Listen, Shawn. Um, I really would love to - "

"Sweet," he breathed - a sigh of relief as he felt the weight fall off his chest at her response.

"- but I don't want to get in the way."

 _Huh? What?_

"Get in the way?" he asked, obtusely, wracking his brain for what she could possibly be talking about.

"Yeah," April said, a sad smile on her face. "I like her -"

Perplexed, the pseudo-psychic tilted his head back.

"- and I think you two will get there. So," she said, turning towards the door, "thanks for everything."

He shook his head, flabbergasted. Did she mean... _Jules_?

No. No way she meant Jules.

He and Jules were just buddies.

Friends.

Slightly flirty bromigos.

She must be mistaken.

"Wha- what does that even mean?"

April grinned at him like she knew something that he didn't.

What the hell had he missed?!

"Good luck, Shawn," she said, eyes sparkling mischievously as she left.

Shawn simply stood there, jaw on the floor, stomach twisting in knots.

 _She couldn't mean…_ he thought, trying to figure out the odds of him catching the eye of not one, but two sexy detectives.

… _could she?_

No. Not Jules.

There was just no way.


	14. I'm Alright

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **I'm Alright**

 _ ***This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is I'm Alright by Kenny Loggins**_

* * *

Carlton felt like he was on top of the world.

Had it not been for the rat bastard slipping out of his grasp and under his radar, much to Carlton's displeasure, he would have caught Chavez years ago. But now – now he had bagged the motherfucker. And it didn't matter whether it was skill, luck, or a generous helping of both that had him cuffing the hardened criminal and hauling him back to the station for booking because the second-in-command of the Cinco Reyes was on his way to lock-up and that was the only thing that mattered.

Carlton would take what he could get and enjoy the feeling while it lasted.

Getting scum like this ass-hole off the street provided him with a natural high and Carlton had found through his many years on the force that the badder the guy, the better he felt post-bust. To him, pushing Chavez through the doors of the precinct and walking the man through a gauntlet of armed and awestruck officers was almost a religious experience.

He felt smart. Powerful. Confident. Things he hadn't felt in far too long.

He was sure of himself, too – something he hadn't felt in even longer.

 _About damn time,_ he thought, steering Chavez past his colleagues.

Steering the gang-banger past his brothers in blue, Carlton felt his pride surge at the obvious admiration, McNab looking what could only be described as agog. The cop next to him – Drimmer, Carlton thought his name was – not so much. But that was to be expected. Some of the Gang Unit guys had been ribbing him over his the Rocinante case and now he'd just walked in with what should have been one of their collars, certain his success where they had failed was certain to shut them up. Of course, Drimmer and his pals was pissed – Carlton just did their jobs for them. And he couldn't wait to rub their noses in it, his hatred for those assholes and the fact that they thought they were better than him the driving force behind his strut.

He felt Spencer's eyes on him as he entered the hall, the psychic's gaze searing into him through his jacket, two layers of shirt, his inflated ego and his Fort Knox level defenses, and Carlton struggled to keep his composure, something twitching inside his chest. _Spencer_. The man was like a one-jerk-infestation with his eyes glued to the detective whenever they crossed paths, yet, even after all they'd gone through together, Carlton found himself far less annoyed by it than he had been before.

Which, of course, was an annoyance in itself.

The lights flickered as he handed Chavez over to the booking officers, the torrential downpour raining havoc as well as water all over their electrical system, leaving Carlton thankful that they'd made through the storm okay, knowing that it hadn't been guaranteed. Between barely being able to see an inch in front of his face and having an angry Mexican spewing epithets in his backseat, he'd had to rely on all his Precision Driver's Training just to get them there in one piece, having barely managed to do so at that. It had been like trying to maneuver a Crown Vic down a kiddie pool waterslide and he wasn't looking forward to ever having to do it again.

Still, he was a little proud of himself, and as he tossed the keys to Andrews with a smile on his face, the lights flickered back on.

"Book him," he said, reveling in the moment of thunderous applause, turning to look at the crowd of cheering colleagues behind him. These were the same people who had been ready to roast his carcass over an open flame because of his Rocinante failure, yet now they were openly adulating.

 _Huh._

The cop smiled wider. It didn't matter that half of them were kissing his ass and full of crap, credit was due where credit was due; he was taking it whether intended or not.

 _This is good,_ he thought, basking in his own awesomeness. _I can work with this._

Maybe things weren't going to be horrible forever after all.

* * *

It was astonishing how quickly his day could go from spectacular to suicide-inducing, but here Carlton was, seriously considering considering it.

He'd thought being informed that he was losing his case to Agents Douche-bag and Dick-face from the FBI was bad enough, but with his luck, he should have been prepared for things to get worse. It was incredibly on brand for him, after all, things rarely working out as well as they seemed like they were going to, and really, he should have known to expect it. But how does one prepare to get caught standing over a dead body with gun in hand though?

He didn't do it.

Carlton wasn't stupid enough to kill someone who had just turned State's Witness. And even if he was, he _certainly_ wasn't stupid enough to do so in his own damn precinct. If any of these people had half a brain, they'd see that as well. Sure, he had a temper, but that was his way of letting off steam; he was aggressive, yes, but not violent. Most of these people had worked with him for years and they should know him well enough to understand that by now.

He yelled so he didn't hit people.

He went to the gun range so no one got shot.

He manhandled Spencer – and _only_ Spencer– because the man practically begged for it with his words and actions and very existence, constantly thrusting himself in Carlton's face.

If it weren't so damn embarrassing, he'd consider getting in the 'psychic' to tell them how very _not_ dead he was, even though he had spent years putting Carlton through varying degrees of disconcerting abuse – assaulting him with his roving hands and lying lips and body pressed so tight against Carlton's it was almost sinful. Spencer was still breathing, and if that wasn't proof that he had more control over his temper than Ocampo was giving him credit for, he didn't know what was.

Mind you, Carlton still wasn't sure all _that_ hadn't just been flirting…

Shortly after finding her, Carlton had discussed his choice of job with Dr. Foster, worried his anger issues were preventing him from being a good cop. She'd told him that based on what she'd seen so far, she wasn't at all surprised that he'd fallen into the profession, informing him that learning to harness his anger would make him better at his chosen work. She'd also said he needed to learn to trust himself more, his instincts good ones that he instead squashed and ignored – a potentially fatal flaw in both his career and his personal life.

Which is why this entire situation had taken him off-guard. He'd had never had any real issues on the force before; with no internal incidences more recent than the Secret Santa Debacle of 2005, his record was clean, or at least clean enough, and this was somehow the first time something he'd mumbled in anger had come back to bite him in the ass. He'd have to be more proactive about avoiding it in the future.

Somehow.

His rage simmering, the Chief asked him what had gone on, and Carlton was a little surprised when she ordered him to answer. He thought it obvious, but he explained anyway, trying to keep as calm as possible. And as a reward for his honesty Carlton received a face full of indignant FBI officials, with mouths full of accusations. The insinuation had him seeing red; empathy not the most useful of traits in a place like the precinct, he knew may be an asshole from time to time, but he wasn't a liar and these asshats from on high coming to question his character pissed him _right_ off.

 _Fuckwads,_ he thought, clenching his teeth as he allowed himself to be held back, desperately wanting to take a swing that would likely land him in a jail cell.

Thank God the Chief believed him.

Carlton didn't know what he would have done without her support, and though he knew she wasn't about to let it happen, he desperately wished he could help her prove his innocence. She was a good Chief, and Carlton was glad she'd had the 'interim' dropped from her title, much as he still might want her job. He also respected the fact that she was capable of putting her personal feelings toward someone aside in the name of justice.

He just wished that someone wasn't him.

Vick asked for his gun with a sad and stressed look in her eyes, and though he knew she was just following protocol, it hurt him more than he could explain. But, proving he was the good cop he said he was, Carlton begrudgingly handed his weapon over without a fight.

With it gone, anxiety began to take hold and he grit his teeth again, trying to remember how to ground himself against the emotional onslaught he was facing and doing his best to remind himself that lacking his weapon did not mean lacking the security that came with it. He was still as strong and smart and capable as he had been with it in his possession, and if he just focused on that, things would be okay. Or so he kept repeating like a mantra in his head, his skin tightening and breath quickening against his will. That in mind, he took a deep breath, focusing on the air as it rushed through his lungs, and he lifted his head, attempting to steady himself before leaving the room, his shoulders squared as followed his boss back up the stairs into the madness that was to be this investigation.

 _Sweet Lady Justice, what the hell could I have possibly done to deserve this?_

* * *

Carlton came home from the grocers to find his boss, two buffoons, Ocampo and a brigade of blues spilling onto his front lawn. He instantly knew what it meant, but in his heart of hearts he hoped it wasn't true. He hadn't broken yet, dangling off the precipice by the tips of his toes, but if anything would do it, this might be it. Eyes clouding and mind racing, Carlton stood there silently and when Ocampo brushed past him with barely a glance, the hunger that had led him out to do some late afternoon grocery shopping fled, his stomach turning to stone.

Karen approached him, and listening to his superior place him on suspension, Carlton's heart broke.

Even _if_ they cleared his name – _if_ , a thing that seemed more and more unlikely with every passing moment – his history would always be marred by the memory of this encounter. He was in hell, and he didn't know whether it was the tarnish on his life's work or the shame from being targeted as their number one suspect that pained him most. It wasn't enough that his name was mud – that everything he had worked so hard for was for naught – but they had to publicly humiliate him by ripping his world out from under him on his doorstep, too.

What a fitting reward for his many years of service.

Carlton had thought that – _hoped_ that – after so many loyal years he would be granted a modicum of privacy when they tore his life to shreds.

He had apparently thought wrong.

Some detective he was.

But he refused to let it affect him in front of his colleagues, so he blinked back his frustration, wondering if ol' Mrs. McGraw was peeping at the scene from across the road, hiding behind her canary yellow curtains. Far too nosy for her own good, the blue haired biddy could just get bent for all Carlton cared, but the last thing he needed was the news making the neighborhood rounds. He hadn't lived in the area long, but he _had_ been around enough to know the old women in the area would make his life miserable were they privy to this private information and it was something he'd like to avoid if at all possible, his neighbors already thinking him 'queer' because he didn't keep any 'lady-friends'.

Suddenly, seeing his most recent sexual conquest flounce down his front steps and stare as his life upended, it dawned on Carlton that they weren't exactly wrong.

Wearing equally awkward looks upon their faces, Spencer and Guster flanked the Chief, and the knowledge that the sometimes-consultants had been in his house unsettled him. Sparsely decorated though it was, and though it may not seem that way to anyone else, his home was more than just a residence to him; it was his one true safe space, and as a large part of his meager existence, he felt more than a little violated that they had been there without his consent.

Vick was one thing, of course, both an expected and necessary evil, but Carlton's reasons for never having invited the perceptive bastard and his buddy to his abode were valid ones and as such, he hoped they hadn't been allowed to snoop around on their own. Who knew what hidden depths Spencer could discover from the way he organized his sock drawer, after all? Because while he hated the psychic's fool act, he couldn't deny that the man's sense of deductive reasoning was so sharp you could prick yourself with it. It made him shudder – not even wanting to _think_ of what the man would or could have picked up on were he allowed free reign.

Instead he stood silently as the Chief requested his badge, a depressed and conflicted look on her face.

Unable to look back, too many feelings rushing through his thin frame, Carlton's gaze shifted to the man behind her left shoulder.

Spencer looked unimpressed, perhaps even upset, and it certainly wasn't the look Carlton had expected to see on the charlatan's face. He didn't know how to process it, not even sure he should, so he filed it away to unpack later, if he wound up unpacking it at all. Discomfited, he went to shift his bag and Guster surprised him by offering assistance, and he surprised himself when he handed the sack over mechanically, his entire body numb save his eyes.

Those began to burn as he battled back tears.

He was _not_ going to cry in public, god damn it.

Not in front of these people and _**certainly**_ not in front of Spencer.

Spencer had already seen him emote too much as it was, and he was tired of being so vulnerable in front of him.

He was stronger than this. Better than this.

Except…

Carlton felt like his entire identity was being cut from his core – his existence unraveled with a single pull of the thread – and he didn't know how to react, what to say, what to do, how to _feel_. He'd never been at such a loss before, the only thing similar being the dissolution of his marriage, and he pictured himself adrift at sea – his body leaden and his chest crushed, legs struggling not to twitch beneath him as waves of bad news swallowed him whole – and he knew that he knew how to breathe, if only he could remember how.

It was just too much, all at once.

Shawn shifted behind Vick, the pseudo-psychic staring at the ground so he wouldn't have to look him in the face, and Carlton wondered what he could possibly be thinking, why he refused to make eye contact. Did he consider this karmic payback for acting like such a jerk? If he did, would he be wrong? More importantly, how could he have been so lucky as to experience his most emasculating moment in front of the man?

Why did Carlton time and time again seem destined to expose himself to this very individual - his hopes and dreams dashed on the ground in front of him for Spencer to witness, leaving him with nothing but memories of what his life had been and fears of what it would turn into?

He just didn't know. It just didn't make sense.

Oblivious to the thoughts racing through her former Head Detective's mind, Vick took his badge, opening her mouth to find she had nothing to say. She quickly closed it, wisely choosing to walk away and Gus handed Carlton back his groceries, wordlessly following suit. Shawn stayed, and it was obvious to Carlton that his friend didn't want to be a part of what was to follow, whatever that may be.

Carlton wasn't sure he did, either.

After a moment of silent staring, Spencer shifted in place, taking a breath and opening his mouth to speak before Carlton could beat a hasty retreat. He looked at the psychic and the psychic looked back at him and he was surprised to see sorrow – not pity, but honest to god sorrow – in those stunning hazel eyes, with no idea why it was there nor whether he deserved the reaction, having treated the man as horribly as he had. He couldn't tell what the consultant was thinking, but it was that look that kept him from running, needing to hear it even if it was the worst possible thing.

 _What? What now?_ he thought, expecting the worst and already self-castigating. _I'm down and ready for the kicking, Spencer. Just give it to me already._

Shawn looked back at him warmly, shooting Carlton a soft smile before departing.

"I know you didn't do this buddy," he said, "and I'm going to do everything I can to prove it. I promise."

Floored, the detective stood there, mind reeling as he tried to piece things together.

 _Oh._

Spencer didn't hate him. He wasn't taking the mickey out of him or telling him this was the work of the almighty karma chameleon or pointing and laughing or any of the things Carlton had expected and had steeled himself for.

Shawn was there, and he wanted to help.

He wanted to help, and he _believed_ in Carlton, even after everything.

 _That…_

Changed everything.

* * *

Groceries in hand, Carlton stood in his doorway, glancing at the officer posted at the door and dismayed at the disarray only he would notice.

Though his colleagues had done their best to be respectful of his things, over a decade on the force had taught him to spot the discrepancies in seconds and he frowned as he entered the room, wondering what the warrant had covered. He hadn't asked, the news of his suspension leaving him too despondent to remember that he even should, and he knew he'd have to talk to Vick about it later, if only he could convince himself to show his face at the precinct.

Maybe a phone call would suffice.

Putting his purchases away on auto-pilot, he tried and failed to numb his racing thoughts, doing his best to mentally pack his bags, knowing he'd need to find somewhere to stay since his place had just been declared a crime scene. It was stupid, of course – Chavez was killed at the station, so no crime had been committed there, but he was sure Ocampo had put them up to it, the man with an obvious hate-on for the suspended Head Detective. Still, the entire house was a hot button and one that made him long for the past – those halcyon days prior to his having been made aware of his many control issues; days where he wouldn't find himself clutching his counter tight, fending off panic as thoughts of stranger's hands searching through his personal things set him off.

No, not stranger's hands – his colleague's and boss' and… _Shawn's_ , which made it so much worse.

Were he living in the past, he wouldn't be standing here, shaking, bile rising in his throat. He wouldn't be bordering on tears, every dark whisper in his brain magnified by his mounting anxieties, the voice he'd always tried so hard to stifle having him half-way to hyperventilating.

He wouldn't be –

He wouldn't be –

 _ **Three fifths of a decanter of Scotch later;**_

Soused, Carlton sat slumped against the door of the seedy motel room he'd sprung for, more miserable than he had been to begin with. As dusk set, it dawned on him that he had forgotten to turn on the light, having been relying on the afternoon sun to illuminate the room. He laughed as he realized it, not knowing if he cared enough to rectify the issue, only knowing he couldn't stand a second night in this hole feeling the way he was – the sounds of screaming from the far end combined with raunchy sex from the room next door driving him mad.

 _Fuck it,_ he thought. The room could stay as dark as he felt.

The wood hard against his spine, he shifted in place and reveled in his misery, saddened by the lack of commiseration he received and wondering how much of that was because his colleagues sucked and how much was because he did. Not having friends didn't usually bother him – he was too busy for much of a social life most of the time, or at least that's what he'd been telling himself – but he'd expected something from someone, not even getting a call from O'Hara to express her condolences.

 _Fuck those fuckwads, none of them giving a shit…_

Carlton breathed deep and after a moment – reminding himself that his partner had probably been told she _couldn't_ contact him – pulled himself off the floor and dragged himself over to the thread-bare chair, taking another self-pitying swig from the bottle of scotch he'd bought on the way, emptying the bottom third of the bottle in a single swallow and grimacing against the burn.

 _But Spencer… Spencer cared._

Spencer, who could have kicked him in the shins and run far and fast and been completely justified in doing so…

 _He cared._

Carlton groaned in embarrassment, overwhelmed and confused by the plethora of feelings he had for the man and the rush of it all flooding back to him. He had denied the attraction, then acted on it, then lashed out at Shawn for his own stupid actions. Now he was sitting there on suspension, drunk as a skunk with nothing to do but remember, hoping to hell that the man he spent so much of his time devaluing still found value in him.

 _God. I'm such an asshole. A grade-A jackass asshole. What the hell is wrong with me?_

He knew he'd treated the other man like dirt. Had known it while he was doing it and still did it anyhow. Carlton had spurned his affections after having returned them, and he'd been cold – colder than cold – to the consultant since. It wasn't fair of him and he knew that, too. Not sure who he was punishing by doing so, he'd kept Shawn at arm's length, terrified he'd do something he would regret if he didn't and feeling like he'd had no other choice. His proximity to the man was a trigger – one far more dangerous than any be found on a gun – and so he did his best to stay distant, both physically and emotionally.

It wasn't helping as much as he had hoped, and though he knew he'd have to apologize eventually, now was not the time. He was too busy fending off a stress induced existential crisis now, and any words of apology said wouldn't be meant like they were supposed to be.

So, he didn't apologize. He drank instead.

Carlton hated the lack of control he possessed over his own life, and it was this mess he was in that made him realize he'd had far less control than he'd originally thought, his turgid rigidity having gotten him nowhere. He had grown up doing everything he was supposed to, after all – he'd listened to his mother, read all the right books, taken all the right classes; he thought all the right things, had run with the right crowd, and had become a respectable, responsible Republican…

So, what the hell had happened?!

Drunk and frustrated and unable to wrap his head around what should have been obvious, he sighed, sliding into self-pity mode. He'd thought his life had come crashing down around his ankles when his wife had left him, but that was nothing compared to this. At least back then, he knew who he was. Or, at least, he'd thought he had. Now… now he didn't know anything, his guidebook thrown out the window, his sexuality in question, and his job on the line.

The only thing left to do was laugh, his distress now bordering on hysteria.

Another swallow from the bottle found it dry and he let it tumble from his fingers on to the floor. It didn't break but bounced, and he laughed at that, too. He'd gotten far too drunk far too fast and because the liquor had disarmed his brain's most reticent tendencies, Carlton's sub-conscious was ready and willing to communicate now it finally had the chance.

If only his sub-conscious wasn't such a prick, reminding him of all his failures as both a cop and a man.

He knew he needed to get back on track – that it needed to be his first step, as a matter of fact – but that it would never happen with the situation as out of control as it was. The thought galvanizing him, Carlton struggled to sit up straight, quickly realizing that how he was sitting was the only straight thing about him and that he had no idea how to rectify the issue – _issues_ – regardless of how much he might want to. The thought left him feeling defeated and slumping for a moment before loosening his tie, he questioned why he'd bothered wearing the damn thing in the first place before concluding that he'd been putting on airs, its necessity brainwashed into him by many years of caring more about what others thought than about what he did.

It had become second nature, and suddenly, his nature something he felt a deep hatred for, that just wouldn't do.

 _How the_ _ **hell**_ _can I ever achieve normal if I can't figure out what that means to me?_

Carlton let his head drop between his knees and breathed deep, feeling like he was bordering on an emotional breakdown and aware he needed the kind of help that happened fast but unsure of how to get it. Proud of himself for thinking of his colleagues first, he wished he could reach out to O'Hara or the Chief, but quickly remembered that their hands were tied in a not even remotely kinky manner – not that he'd ever considered either woman in that manner. That was weird, and gross, even if he had slept with a colleague that one time.

It took him a bit, but he finally came up with an answer after what felt like years of drunken pontification. The conclusion he came to was consternating, and as the idea came to mind, his smile turned into a furrowed frown.

He didn't want to, _really_ didn't want to, but he had no other choice.

If he couldn't rely on his colleagues, his pride would have to be shoved to the side and replaced with… well, he wasn't quite sure what the feeling was. But if he couldn't get help from them, it left exactly one person for Carlton to turn to.

His mind wandered to the man with the sad hazel eyes – the man who had smiled at him, offering his assistance. Shawn had wanted to help, not once, but twice, even though there had been nothing in it for him, nothing in it at all except for Carlton's happiness.

The detective started, the thought sobering him instantly.

 _Nothing but my happiness._

The idea rolled around in his head, slowly accumulating others as pieces of an unseen puzzle fell into place, growing into something much larger.

Something much more profound.

Something somehow intensely esoteric.

Carlton shook it away, not wanting to acknowledge it and hating to admit he required the assistance. Hating to admit he required Shawn in any way, even though he needed him in many.

 _I need him._

The thought popped into his head as if it had been summoned there and he flushed, not wanting it to be true. But it had already been validated and it wasn't going to leave.

 _I need him._

It was louder the second time, even louder the third, and he stood from his chair, looking at the little mirror above the dresser to see his face determined and pale.

 _Dammit, I'm going to have to hire Psych._

His eyes shone bright.

 _I need him._


	15. Trust Yourself

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Trust Yourself**

 _ ***This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Trust Yourself by Blue Rodeo**_

* * *

Carlton watched in slow motion as the psychic's tongue swirled around the tip of the bright orange confectionery, the sight of the man somehow smirking around it sending a jolt straight to his groin. He was almost certain Spencer was trying to rile him up on purpose, the illicit image guaranteed to elicit a memory of their tryst in the bathroom of not-Tom Blair's Pub - when Shawn proven to Carlton that his tongue was good for more than just mouth-fucking a frozen phallus.

His body still firmly yet awkwardly planted in the Psych office, Carlton's mind was whisked miles away, the grin Shawn wore as he described wanting to lick Carlton like the creme-sicle his current self was fellating flashing before his eyes.

Carlton remembered it like it was just yesterday.

The elation evident on the other man's face when Carlton had acquiesced, ordering him to make good on his years of taunting and finally suck him off.

The way the door handle pressed into his spine as Spencer lowered himself to his knees.

The feeling of Shawn's mouth wrapped around Carlton's cock, his tongue swiping across –

Carlton shook his head, trying to snap out of it and failing.

He felt a blush begin to creep across his face and determined not to let it get the best of him, moved to the other room while doing his best to ignore it – a task that, to his chagrin, was as hard as he was. Though the psychic hadn't actively hit on him since their fight, this blatant display of perversity made Carlton wonder whether Spencer was acting out as some sick form of payback – fucking with him while helping him in order to say god knows what – and how much he deserved it if it was.

Neither Spencer nor Guster seemed to be taking the investigation as seriously as he had hoped, so he was surprised when the Wonder Twins followed from one room to the other, slurping on their sweets as they walked behind him and his burgeoning erection, hid only by the box of evidence he carried. He'd let them know he'd narrowed the list down and walked away, hoping the change of scenery would spur a continuation of case-related conversation, but Spencer continued on with his buffoonery, slapping a hand down on his notepad and declaring Carlton wrong.

The blatant chicanery was starting to wear on him.

It was obvious to anyone who cared to look that Spencer was intelligent, but it was rare the man actually acted like it, constantly hiding his genius behind acts of idiocy and frustrating the cop to no end. While he had no idea how the amateur detective had managed to achieve the solve rate he had, Carlton knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it had nothing to do with being psychic – psychic being a thing he wouldn't believe even with a gun pressed to his temple. Despite this, and as much as he may want to, he couldn't deny that the exuberant consultant produced results – the damn dinosaur being the perfect example of an unsolvable case somehow solved by the fake.

Which is why he shouldn't have been surprised when Shawn surmised that there was more to the cop's memory than he was remembering.

But he was.

Shawn's warm, wet lips wrapped around the flavored ice and Carlton tried not to stare, the distraction making him fail to notice Shawn's hands at his throat as they moved to loosen his tie. Startled by the motion, he protested, not wanting to give up control. As per usual, the psychic just ignored him, sliding the striped silk around Carlton's eyes like a blindfold and knotting it into place, leaving him standing there aroused and feeling like a fool.

He was glad Spencer was helping him – really, he was. He just wished that he didn't have to expose so much of himself for it to happen. Or at least, most of him wished that, a little part deep down inside thrilled at the idea.

Exhaling, Carlton tried to center himself, grateful for Guster's presence acting as a buffer, the man perhaps not quite _adult_ supervision but supervision nonetheless. The cop was quickly learning that the more vulnerable he was, the stupider he was likely to be, apt to acts of irresponsibility when he felt exposed. And he hadn't felt this exposed in a while, perhaps feeling it more now than he had weeks prior when his pants had been undone.

 _Think first. Act later,_ he told himself. _And remember to breathe, dammit._

Shawn stepped away, removing the stick from his mouth.

"Sensory deprivation. You told me what you saw. Now tell me what you heard."

Hearing the unspoken words asking for his trust, Carlton paused.

A shiver ran down his spine and he wondered if the man really knew what he was asking.

Trust couldn't be taken back once it was given freely, and if he gave it, it meant that he couldn't give it lightly; the simple act once again changing their dynamic. Carlton _could_ trust Shawn – and really, if there was a time for it, wasn't that time _now?_ – but doing so would be admitting that he'd had a sliver of faith in the psychic all along, regardless of how little he believed in his abilities.

It was a small thing, but one small thing with them could and would lead into something more, having proven to be the case multiple times already.

Carlton knew he had no choice, though. Things were changing whether he wanted them to or not and the only person willing to help was standing there in front of him, lips lackadaisically sheathing an icy sweet as he ordered Carlton to think outside the box he'd spent his entire career living in.

So.

It was all or nothing.

Now or never.

And if it was never, his life was ruined and he might as well find some heavy traffic to throw himself in.

Unable to fight it any longer, Carlton sighed, resigned to giving in and knowing he'd only be fucking himself if he didn't.

 _Maybe it is time to trust again,_ he thought, shifting uncomfortably beneath Shawn's gaze.

 _Even if it is Spencer._

* * *

A perfectly horrible idea, Carlton went with Shawn and Gus to the precinct.

Seeing O'Hara with Drimmer as he sat in the back of the stupid Blueberry flooded him with feelings of inadequacy, the fear of being replaced causing him to break into a cold sweat. He'd thought he had a handle on things, but he was very clearly wrong, the sight of his former partner with his replacement triggering a panic attack the size of Pennsylvania – easily one of the worst he'd experienced in his already anxiety-riddled existence. It made him want to hurl, and only partially due to his distaste for the man who'd replaced him in the first place.

 _Maybe it's karma,_ he thought.

 _Or it's because I'm not good enough,_ he thought.

 _Maybe it's because I'm a right bastard,_ his brain practically screamed _._

Carlton sighed, trying to calm himself, knowing it would do no good.

It just – it was like everything he had worked for was a lie, the realization of such not dawning on him until that very moment. The thought itself was a shock to the system and he gripped the driver's seat headrest tight to combat it, failing when he realized he'd been trapped in a nasty game of existential charades for longer than he'd thought possible.

Perhaps his whole life.

The sting of betrayal was an open-handed slap across the face and Carlton's breath quickened in response, his pulse racing as a wave of claustrophobia rolled over him.

He needed out of the Blueberry and he needed out _now_.

But Carlton found himself foiled by child safety locks and started to spiral as his world came crashing down around him. He couldn't believe how desperate he was to breathe fresh air – to free himself from his portable prison.

His actions mad and frantic, Carlton scrambled to escape for what seemed like longer than forever, finally unrolling the window and opening the door from the outside, too disassociated to even realize it. To him, it was magic. He'd been in one hell and now, in the blink of an eye, he was in another, free of the car but also all of the things he'd found important in life.

Carlton found that he missed O'Hara.

Not only had he escaped just in time to watch her drive away, he actually _missed_ her. He never would have expected nor would he admit to it, but Carlton was sharper when she was around.

More personable.

More present.

He liked himself when she was near, her contagious smile infecting even his cantankerous nature.

Now he was alone. Alone and on his way to being forgotten, her smile no longer there to temper his anger.

Standing in the street, his heart sinking in time with the slowly setting sun, Carlton tried his best to figure out how he'd fucked it all up, watching his partner depart while the castigating voices inside his head bled into one.

* * *

The Psych duo found Carlton stretched across a bench on the boulevard in front of their office, semi-despondent, full of self-loathing and oddly, wearing one of Shawn's shirts. Carlton barely acknowledged their arrival when they finally arrived, knowing it was not only inevitable but bound to be uncomfortable no matter which way he looked at tit. Honestly, at that point, he almost didn't even care. How could he when it felt like all he had left in the world was the help and stolen clothes of a man who he was beginning to feel for but who – with his luck – probably only pitied him in turn?

 _What good am I anymore? What good was I ever?_

Numb, he watched Guster cry over spilled pudding to avoid looking at Spencer, unable to meet the man's inquiring gaze.

"Lassie, what's going on here?" Shawn asked solemnly.

"Well, let's see," Carlton sighed, glancing up and catching the look of concern on the psychic's face. He was surprised by it, but it changed nothing. "My partner's moved on," he muttered, sullen. "My career is in shambles, and even Sweet Lady Justice has abandoned me..."

He paused, knowing there was more he could say but deciding not to.

"Bitch."

There was no way he was telling them the truth.

Carlton had really broken into the Psych office – in broad daylight, no less – to get access to the anxiety medication he had stashed in his overnight bags. He had been prescribed a low dosage by his doctor, just enough to take the edge off and make the things that seemed like they were spinning out of control stop, and at that moment he had never needed things to stop more.

The world around him throbbed and seeking a distraction from it, he'd opened the fridge to peruse while waiting for the medication to take effect, silently mocking the few items he found as a cheap form of entertainment until he spotted what looked to be homemade tapioca pudding on the top shelf.

His ridicule quickly turned into pangs of hunger, the man not quite sure of the last time he'd eaten.

Carlton was certain the pudding came from Guster's kitchen. In fact, it was laughable to assume it would have belonged to anyone _other_ than the uptight pharmaceuticals rep – not only because 'homemade' had the requirement of being made in one's home, but because Carlton was pretty sure Shawn had never used anything more labor intensive than an Easy Bake oven. So, feeling a little proud of his not-quite masterful deductive reasoning, Carlton had snagged it and smiled - the first smile in what felt like forever.

The realization that he'd been so depressed for so long left Carlton both sad and gobsmacked, and he paused, stolen pudding in hand.

 _Is this really what my life consists of?_ he had asked himself. _Finding joy in stealing food as I attempt to fend off a nervous breakdown in the Psych office?_

He took a deep breath, thoughts still racing.

 _Why is he even helping me? And what the hell was that look on his face back at my place about?_

Carlton put the container on the counter while he thought, head spinning in too many circles for him to multitask, his need for a spoon greater than his greed for the pudding. If he had been in a regular person's office finding the necessary utensil would have been easy. But _no,_ he had to be standing in the middle of Psych, trying to figure out where the mad-man that ran the place had decided was a rational spot to stash spoons, the obvious location of the cutlery drawer lacking any.

It was odd. Spencer had been a part of Carlton's life for over two years and he still didn't know why the man did _most_ of what he did. He certainly didn't understand the motive behind the psychic's most recent behavior. Helping him was the last thing Shawn should want to be doing. But that failure to understand could be because Carlton couldn't ever imagine reacting that way himself. Which, he realized, said a lot more about him than it did about Spencer.

 _If I had been treated like I treated him,_ he lamented, frustrated with his lack of findings, _I would never speak to me again. Yet, here he is, trying to clear my name._

Carlton shook his head, surrendering to both the idea that the psychic might be the better man and the fact that he was going to have to go spoon-less, having checked three drawers and the sink to no avail. _Fuck it,_ he thought, grabbing the tapioca off the counter, determined to have it, utensil be damned. _I'll drink it straight_ _from the fucking container_.

But just like he'd been struggling to wrap his mind around his current situation, he struggled to pop the top of the tapioca, realizing rather quickly that he had misjudged the quality of plastic Gus had purchased just like he'd misjudged Spencer, the lid stuck as tight as an unbreakable alibi.

 _How is it that **Shawn** of all people has been the one there for me most in my lowest moments? _Carlton had wondered, trying and failing to pry the corner up with his thumb. _Does he care more than I give him credit for? Is it possible that that sarcastic little bastard thinks he loves me?_

The idea had frightened him enough that his hands grew clammy at the thought. He couldn't remember the last time someone had ever _truly_ loved him, nor what that meant. Or how it could affect things.

There was one person who could answer the question though, and he made a mental note to ask his ex when he got around to sending her the email his shrink had been pestering him about, aware it was a necessary evil but trying to put the conversation off as long as he could. Foster had been on him every session they'd had in the past month to talk to Victoria, but Carlton hadn't yet. He didn't want to admit it, but he was scared. Re-opening that mostly closed door of communication was a big step and finally finding out the truth of things even bigger. It felt like he'd be willingly digging a hole inside himself that might fester if left untreated, not knowing if treatment was even possible, and he wasn't sure it was worth the risk.

In any case, he was also determined not to get his ass kicked by a tub of pudding - another thing he was entirely unprepared for. So, unable to find something to blot his fingers with, Carlton set the container down, wiping his palms on his slacks in preparation for its defeat. It shouldn't be this difficult – neither asking for much needed answers nor opening the damn container – but it was, and Carlton hated himself a little for it. His week had already sucked bad enough without his being beaten by a dessert, after all; he refused to lose this battle, too.

Feeling defeated, Carlton sighed. If he wasn't going to be able to figure out what was going on inside his head, he wished he could at least free his purloined pudding.

One little victory. That's all he needed.

One win, with or without the psychic's help, would mean the absolute world.

He couldn't believe the pudding – a thing he'd hoped would soothe his wounded soul – was proving to be as big of a pain-in-the-ass as Shawn tended to be.

Suddenly, struggling far more than he'd ever admit to, he wondered when the man had ceased to be _Spencer_ in his mind.

Shawn had always been 'Spencer', straight from the start. He'd gotten entangled in Carlton's work life and then in Carlton's personal life, and if there was one thing the cop could guarantee, it was that he would continue to deny the man his given name until the day he died, just like Spencer denied him his. Or at least that's what he had thought, right up until he had thrust his hands through the psychic's hair and his dick down his throat.

Then _everything_ had changed. But not really, everything having changed long before then.

The psychic...

 _Spencer_...

Had been Shawn prior to Carlton storming into his doctor's office, denying there was even attraction there.

Had been Shawn by the time McNab interrupted their bathroom rendezvous at not-Tom Blair's.

Hell, he'd stopped being Spencer the second he crawled into Carlton's lap in the car all those weeks ago.

In his heart and in his mind and in his dreams, even if the word never left his mouth.

Shawn. He was Shawn.

 _Even after all this,_ he thought in awe. _He just wants me happy_.

Curious as to whether the pseudo-psychic's constant presence at the precinct had been nothing more than an excuse to spend time with him, Carlton shook his head, the many times he'd found the man there without reason to be suddenly surfacing in his mind. He would never understand why were it the case, but he had smiled at the thought that he was wanted nonetheless.

It was astounding – almost incomprehensible – that a hurricane of human emotion like Shawn Spencer could love a man like him, his opposite in almost every single way.

Carlton was rigid and judgmental and unforgiving, whereas Spencer was flexible and fearless and _fun_.

Carlton ate justice for breakfast, whereas Spencer gobbled up lawlessness like it was a candy-coated confection.

Carlton stuck to the books, breaking the bad guys down and strangling a confession out of them with the red tape he'd methodically worked his way through. Shawn tore those very same books to shreds, using them as fodder to pack his confetti cannon with, both the man and his disregard for rules exploding all over the place in celebration over closing a case – usually one of Carlton's.

His attraction failed to make sense, the Head Detective unable to figure out why the psychic - so warm and wanton and carefree - would ever want him. Yet, as a man who lived and died by logic, he had to admit the proof was in the pineapple.

Shawn wanted him, and not only wanted him but based on the way he'd been acting as of late was probably falling for him, whether he realized it or not. Falling for him even though he'd been an asshole to him, which said more than words ever could.

It gave him pause for thought, and distracted, Carlton sensed the lid of the container about to finally give.

"Almost there," he grunted softly.

If only he could put just a bit more muscle into it -

 _Is it possible I could love him back?_

The question smacked him in the face with the impact of a nine-millimeter hollow-point bullet and his hand jerked, that small spasm the thing that finally set his pudding free.

The top soared through the air and unprepared, Carlton found his crisp, clean shirt coated in coagulated goo, the lid landing smack-dab in the center of his chest.

 _Great,_ he'd thought, trying to wipe away the mess, knowing the one in his mind would be harder to clean than the one on his clothes. _Just fucking lovely._

The shirt a lost cause, it didn't take long for him to give up. As he unbuttoned his collar with one hand and reached for his overnight bag with the other, Carlton paused, spotting a blue plaid long-sleeve hanging on the back of a chair. It wasn't like it was a stunning shirt or anything, the long-sleeve not even his usual style, but something in his head

 _heart_

 _ **gut**_

told him to put it on instead.

Carlton wasn't normally one to take nor wear things that weren't his, and while he didn't know for _sure_ that it was Shawn's, the navy plaid looked both likely to belong to the psychic and like it would fit. Logic insisted it was reasonable to want to avoid making more laundry for himself, so Carlton slid out of his own shirt and pushed the thought of the comfort wearing his crush's would bring him aside. Logic was full of it, of course, but he slipped the stolen button-up on with ease nonetheless, surprised at the quality of fabric brushing against his flesh. He didn't really care how he looked but he'd expected Shawn's cheap style to trickle down into equally cheap fabric, though that very clearly wasn't the case. Carlton should have expected as much, though. Spencer was the king of comfort, after all, and would want to be as cozy as he could be, even in clothes that were half a step up from pajamas. And while it _wasn't_ pajamas, the shirt was as reassuring as being wrapped in flannel could be, fitting both his mood and body reasonably well.

It fit him comfortably.

Maybe _too_ comfortably.

The implications attached to that were glaring, and shifting in the shirt like it was new skin, he'd shrugged at the thought of them.

New shirt. New skin. New life. New beginnings.

Maybe all of those were the things he needed and this the opportunity to take them – a chance to turn the lemons he'd been handed into lemonade, add a little vodka, and have himself one hell of a housewarming party.

Once he got his house back, of course.

Cause the thing was, as much as he didn't want to admit it, Spencer made him feel like he was worth something, even when everything else in his life didn't – the man's assistance in this matter the perfect example of that. He'd had the chance to turn that freely given affection into something more – into something he could experience every day, something he could use keep him on his toes and fuel his fire and make him feel fucking human again – and he'd thrown it all away, too scared to do make a move and letting fear dictate his reality.

As Carlton finished buttoning the top button of the stolen shirt, he lamented the pilfered pudding he'd dropped on the floor in shock when the lid had hit his chest and adjusted his collar and inhaled, wondering how the hell he was going to fix his life as he relished in the soft scent of musk and pineapple.

* * *

Carlton lay on Henry's couch, staring into nothingness.

He'd been there for hours and hadn't moved in equally as long, Henry finally walking by and shutting the TV off about thirty minutes prior, the man tired of the back to back to back to back COPS Carlton hadn't even really been watching anyhow. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but Carlton found himself so overwhelmed by his emotions over the last half day that he felt anesthetized to the world. It like he was slipping into an existential crisis with no way back out of the void and all he could do was stare at the blank screen and try not to lose his ever-loving mind.

Out of the blue, his phone went off in front of him.

 _Bad Boys, Bad Boys, whatcha gonna do?_

It was Spencer's ring-tone. He'd stolen Carlton's phone months and months ago, selecting it for himself as he programmed his number into the cell. Carlton had swatted at him, then scowled at the $1.99 price-tag attached to the tune, muttering something about being paid back and knowing he was never going to be. For some reason though – probably his subconscious speaking to his unexpected attraction – Carlton had left it like that, the sounds of Inner Circle filling the room long after the show that had used it as its theme had left the screen.

Carlton grabbed his Blackberry, unsure of how he was going to answer but knowing he needed to nonetheless. Was this a sign he should say something to the psychic about how he felt? But how the hell could he do that when he wasn't sure of what he felt, himself?

 _Whatcha gonna do when we come for you?_

He knew it was Shawn, but the name still took a moment to register, sorrow having settled deep enough that his brain had nearly disconnected from his body, cognitive dissonance running the show.

Seeing it was a text message, he opened it on autopilot.

 _ **Break in the case, meet me at your apartment – Spencer**_

The cop sat up. Something was off.

 _This isn't Spencerspeak..._

Carlton had been sent many an irritating text message from Shawn before and his spidey-sense was tingling with this one; something was very much wrong.

There was no innuendo. No stupid smiley face. And for some reason, he had signed it Spencer.

Shawn never signed his texts, and when he did sign anything, if it wasn't with his given name it was with something ridiculously stupid, like The Splendiferous Psych Man, The Super Psych-er, or – Carlton's personal favorite – Chief Master Sergeant Sexybottom. Shawn never signed texts, and he was never serious if he could help it, and he certainly wouldn't be typing when he could be calling, the man taking a near twisted delight in aggravating Carlton over the phone.

 _Besides,_ he mused, _I wouldn't think you could get him to spell properly if you had a gun to his head._

He froze, the thought sticking.

The image of Shawn on his knees with a gun to his head flooding his senses.

The feeling of a loss he might not have to endure if he moved his ass fast enough out the door overwhelming him.

 _Shit._

Grabbing his keys off the dining room table, Carlton booked it out of the house Shawn had grown up in, not for a second thinking to let Henry know what was happening or even call out for backup.

His thoughts were too erratic. His pulse beating too fast.

He couldn't lose Shawn now.

He hadn't even figured out what they had yet.

Shawn still had to yell at him for being a bastard.

He still had to help him clear his name.

And more importantly…

Carlton still had to say he was sorry, the need to apologize nearly suffocating him.

Before he even knew it, the suspended cop was in his car, and tires squealing as he peeled out into the night, he prayed to a God he hadn't talked to since he was a child that everything would turn out alright, a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he drove.

Shawn would be okay.

He just had to be.


	16. Danger Zone

**Danger Zone**

 _ ***This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins**_

Shawn couldn't believe he had let his ego get the best of him.

Well, he could, but he really didn't want to.

It wasn't that he had a romantic interest in Juliet – nor she him, nothing having happened after April's cryptic comments to make him think she did – but when Drimmer dropped her name and started talking about all the things she'd supposedly said, he couldn't help but wonder if it was true. In fact, his self-pride had burst at the seams with every word spoken. He'd lived his entire life with a father who never thought he was good enough, after all, and no matter how hard he tried not to let it, it eventually took its toll – the negging and bitching and belittling acting like emotional erosion.

Could he really be blamed for wanting to hear that someone thought the best of him every once in a while?

He didn't think so.

It was the throbbing of his face that eventually woke him. When Shawn realized he was at Lassie's house – a place he'd always wanted to wake up in, albeit for very different reasons, it didn't take long to figure out what had gone on; Drimmer's ink-stained and obviously guilty fingers holding a gun on him was all the proof he needed. And while Shawn took it as a compliment that the dirty detective was worried enough to psychic-nap him – even more so when he acknowledged Shawn's ability to smart-ass his way out of everything – he also questioned whether the cop might be right about his inability to work his way out of this, hating the fact that the thought even crossed his mind.

Drimmer had said he wasn't going to kill Shawn, and while that had him curious, the look on the man's face said it didn't mean he wasn't willing to shoot him to shut him up. So that's what Shawn did. He shut up and sat, waiting for whatever came next and the opportunity it would present him with.

The problem was, of course, that Shawn was not a patient man, stuck in a situation where he had no choice but to be.

It was Lassie's fault, really. He had been on such a downward spiral lately and Shawn had just been so damn happy to see things turning around for him that when it all came apart, he couldn't help but want to help him pick up the pieces. He wasn't quite over what had gone on between them in the bar bathroom, but he _was_ working towards it; learning to let live and let go, not wishing anything worse on Lassiter than he'd already had to deal with.

Then Chavez got shot, an act that broke his favorite detective, and triggered something in Shawn that he just couldn't bear. Cause the thing was, this time the hell wasn't something that Lassiter had done to himself; it was something being done _to_ him. And there was no way Shawn was letting such a hard-working, dependable man like Lassie lose everything he'd ever endeavored because of the crooked cop in front of him. Not if his life depended on it.

Which turns out it might.

Shawn didn't know why he was fighting for the man so vociferously, arguing his innocence when he couldn't be certain Lassie would do the same for him. Though the man could be a bastard at times, too wrapped up in himself to realize how he affected others, Carlton was the one person Shawn could always count on to be strong and true. Even when they weren't getting along, he knew that Lassiter's integrity and intelligence would be what led the way, the man refusing to suffer fools or acknowledge bullshit – especially bullshit of the pseudo-psychic scented variety.

It was, Shawn supposed, one of the reasons he had started crushing on the man in the first place; the dour detective the perfect foil to test himself against – never shaking or breaking under the insurmountable pressures of the job, never succumbing to the aggravating attitude Shawn regularly presented him with. Lassie might tell him to shut up and he might throw him around from time to time, but he never let Shawn wear him down or manipulate him like other weaker people had and would.

Lassieface was who he was, and he was unashamed of that.

It didn't seem to matter what Shawn did to get his goat, either. The Head Detective always remained both sure of himself and sure that Shawn wasn't psychic, the only person in his life outside of Henry who refused to put up with his shit. But whereas Henry just steamrolled right over his son, Lassie sparred with Shawn instead, both men fighting with their words so intensely it was practically foreplay. Combined with arms wrapped around each other as Carlton repeatedly escorted him out of a room or off a case – body pressed against body as he was manhandled away – and the fact that the detective was always the first to warn him to watch out for danger, words laced with both worry and frustration, it was no wonder Shawn had fallen head over heels for the cop.

Well, that and Lassie was a walking wet dream, what with his ridiculously sexy stern-bush, his gravelly, growly 'tell-Spencer-off' voice, and his deliciously bitable butt and all – not that Shawn had managed to get anywhere near Lassie's ass yet. Lassiter might not realize it, but he was practically fake-psychic bait, _and_ while it hadn't worked out between them, Shawn was glad he had tried, their sexual attraction crackling on a level he had never experienced before.

It wasn't just his libido talking though. Sure, it had been the original reason he had taken interest in the detective, but then _feelings_ had gone and gotten themselves involved. Lassie didn't just put the tick-tock in his cock clock, he was also his anchor. His own human grounding agent. That stringy thingy on a kite that made sure it didn't float away. He was Shawn's very real tether to reality and in his touch, Shawn had felt a promise to catch him if ever he fell. Because that's what Lassie did – he protected and served. And with Shawn, though the man had never actually said it, he knew it went far beyond the call of duty, having weaseled his way into the man's heart long before either ever knew it had happened.

Shawn wasn't stupid; he was aware that he challenged the cop on a regular basis. Not only because he was Lassie's opposite in personality, but because he knew the man couldn't deny his sleuthing skills, much as he may disapprove of his methods. Aggravating Lassie was, in fact, a thing Shawn did on purpose. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Every Abbott needed his Costello, every Kirk his Spock. And Shawn was pretty sure they were each other's – two halves of the same whole, each man making the other better in ways neither would have ever imagined.

Lassie would never be anything other than Captain Logic, he knew, but ever since Shawn had started working for the PD, he'd noticed that Lassiter had discovered the meaning of empathy – or, at least, what passed as empathy for the detective anyhow. It wasn't that he expressed it often, of course, but there had been times in the past where Shawn had been given cause to pause, Lassie surprising him by taking time to think about what he was going to next say rather than brashly blowing his way straight through the situation. He was no longer the guy who thought compassion was simply not selling the theatre seat someone had recently died on but had become a man who knew to send his partner to deal with emotional labor because it was a task at which he was likely to fail.

Shawn was sure that Jules had rubbed off on him a bit there, too, but he believed it was he who had become the most humanizing element in Lassie's toolbox – an answer to all the problems that he hadn't been aware he'd had. Shawn was the yin to Lassie's yang, the butter to his popcorn, the spark that lit his slightly uptight and poorly be-suited fire. But it wasn't just that Lassie had changed; Shawn had changed, too. He made Lassie look outside the box he'd been trapped in for the vast majority of his life and Lassie had given Shawn a much-needed focal point to springboard off of - his crazy ideas only given clout once Lassiter's staunch police work backed it up.

It made Shawn feel safe. Safe and understood, even when the man was mocking him incessantly or devaluing his efforts.

It might have even had something to do with why he hadn't left Santa Barbara yet.

Ever since he'd graduated, Shawn had spent most of his life on the road, never pausing long enough to grow new roots anywhere if he could avoid it. His roots were here even though he rarely was, Shawn always disappearing when things got rough, the memories attached to his hometown something he constantly tried to outrun.

But this time had been different.

Yes, he had reconnected with Gus, but he did that every time he came home, his childhood best friend usually the reason he returned in the first place. Shawn always felt bad about leaving the man, usually doing so in the middle of the night or while Gus was at work, too overwhelmed by whatever he was feeling to say goodbye. But Gus was used to it by now, and while Shawn tended to regret it for a few days afterward, it was never going to be the thing that kept him there.

He'd started making peace with Henry, too, although his father was half the reason he avoided Santa Babs like the plague to begin with, and seven out of ten times the thing that drove him away. So, while he enjoyed their tentatively budding father/son relationship for what it was, Shawn was always waiting for the other shoe to drop onto his mental gas pedal and trigger his need to flee.

He didn't get why things always had to be Henry's way or the highway and when given the choice, the highway's siren song always called too strong. It didn't matter that he and his dad were working on salvaging things between them; if Shawn felt the need to leave, his familial obligations would fall by the wayside and all Henry would get would be a text post-ghost saying _hasta la bye-bye._

Shawn loved Psych, and he was sure that it was the other half of the reason he hadn't left yet – not because doing so would disappoint Gus or prove his father right but because for the first time in his life he felt like he had a real purpose. Psych was a way for him to use the memory cursed on him by his mother and the training forced on him by his father, all wrapped in a special Shawn-ian bow and able to fulfill his need for a goal outside of himself.

Money would come and money would go, printed pieces of paper that he could attain in multiple ways, far less important to him than the average thirty-one-year-old. What Shawn _really_ wanted – the thing that floated his boat like a Fisher Price bath-time toy – was to be needed. To be challenged. To be given a chance to prove himself and make a difference of some kind.

Not that anyone ever realized it.

On more than one occasion – usually by his own father – he had been accused of doing what he did for glory. And while true he did from time to time enjoy the limelight, the assumption hurt. Glory wasn't even close to the reason behind it, and the fact that he'd never taken credit for the Vallery case proved as much. Shawn did it because, though he didn't acknowledge it often, the world was full of injustice; it was a broken-down hunk of rock spinning on people's usually failed hopes and dreams and it made him want to make it somehow suck less.

If he just so happened to use his masterful powers of melodrama and amuse himself in the process? Well... what was wrong with bringing a little light to the daily darkness?

Shawn had always been out to entertain himself first, of course, learning from a young age that it was up to him to make his life worth living. But it wasn't until three and a half years ago that Shawn realized he could combine his need to avoid boredom with his desire to do some good. Starting his own holistic detective agency changed that. Sure, calling in tips from the comfort of his couch made him money and saved the day, but Psych… Psych allowed him to flourish in ways he hadn't even known he needed, not realizing his soul had practically atrophied until he put it to good use again.

Which never would have ever happened without Lassie.

Every day since, he had thanked whatever entity was out there that it had been Officer Allen working the front desk that day. When Lassie had gotten belligerent with him, it was only her belief in mumbo jumbo that saved his ass, Shawn latching on to her superstition to claim he was a psychic, the demonstration he'd given to the angry Head Dick the only thing that kept him out of a cell. Lassiter hadn't been listening, so determined was he to bring Shawn to an undeserved justice, and his thick-headedness had cost him. Had allowed Shawn an opening that would change both their lives for good.

Who would have thought that a conversation with a behemoth of a bully with an ax to grind against his ex and her new boo would result in cutting Carlton's knees out from under him?

Even more surprising, who would have thought that Shawn's need to prove Lassie wrong on the MacCallum case would not only result in his having a career he wanted to keep for as long as he could, but plant the seeds of desire, the psychic quickly coming to find that he wanted to spend all his waking moments with the cop who tried to unjustly arrest him in the first place?

Hell, through some sort of Celtic witchery, the Irishman had bespelled him, his creamy skin, cerulean eyes, and cranky disposition somehow breaking Shawn's commitment-phobe patterns. Lassie made him want nothing more than to crawl into his lap and bed and heart and stay there maybe a day past forever.

Or at least he had, prior to Lassie having a heterosexual freak-out in a seedy little bar while shoving Shawn as physically and emotionally far from him as he could.

Lassie had lost it and his reaction had shredded Shawn's feelings, the pieces of his bloody and still beating heart packed away in tiny little boxes and shipped off to the ends of the earth Buffy the Vampire Slayer season two style. He was living the real-life version of both Surprise _and_ Innocence and it broke his fucking heart when his not very sweet but _totally_ stolid Lassie had popped Shawn's care-cherry and practically lost his soul right after.

Well, maybe not lost his soul, but he'd definitely turned into a raging jack-ass, nonetheless. Lassie had experienced his moment of true happiness and had gone off the deep-end, completely overcompensating for his homo-erotic adventure by punishing them both.

And Shawn had hated – _still_ hated – every moment of it.

He wished that could have been the end of it.

He wished he could have been as strong as the sultry Miss Summers, wished he could have picked up a rocket launcher and blown this whole situation to smithereens. But he didn't and couldn't, lacking a fake-military friend to infiltrate the nearest army base for him. Instead he had Gus, with whom he had talked for hours on end that fateful night, moving from the bench by the ocean to the couch in the office, ordering pity-pizza and getting into _way_ more detail than his buddy had wanted to hear.

Gus was a good friend like that and his anger at Lassiter made him an even better one. The pharma-rep had been unable to wrap his mind around the reasons Lassie gave for acting the way he had and refused to accept the excuses Shawn found himself offering on the cop's behalf.

Gus had also pointed out that Lassie was stupider than he let on if he hadn't believed he'd been flirting with Shawn from the very start. For someone who had attained the title of youngest Head Detective in Santa Barbara history, Gus had intoned, Lassiter certainly had his head up his ass about what his tendency to throw Shawn up against walls said.

Shawn had blinked at that, a stupid look on his face as he asked what Gus had meant.

Gus had been so confused when Shawn had brought up being into Lassiter – his shock at the news of the psychic's first make-out session with the detective both obvious and evident – that Shawn had difficulty accepting his best buddy could have ever seen this coming. He had found himself floored when Gus admitted that years of watching Shawn act the fool had allowed him to pick up a trick or two of his own. Gus had informed him rather matter-of-factly actually, that it was – from time to time – easier to dissuade him by playing dumb than it was to try to logic some sense into his head.

And according to Gus, doing Lassiter was not just dumb but extremely stupid – both the action and the person.

" _C'mon, Shawn,"_ he had said. _"Do you really think I didn't notice? Hell, I'm surprised it took you so long to catch on. It was the equivalent of you pulling pigtails in the third grade, dude. And Lassiter acted like the butch kid who didn't want to be outed but couldn't stop himself from flirting so turned it into aggression instead."_

" _What? No –"_ Shawn had objected, with Gus promptly interjecting.

" _I may pretend to be an idiot well enough to win an Emmy,"_ he smirked, swiping his thumb across his nose to accentuate the smug look on his face, _"but I'm not stupid. I did graduate with a 3.7 GPA, after all."_

Shawn hadn't known what to say to that, the occasion of being hoodwinked by his bestie being so incredibly rare. He just… no. It wasn't possible.

" _But –"_

" _But,"_ Gus had continued, his voice turning serious and his face doing the same, _"I figured if I didn't acknowledge it, you wouldn't acknowledge it. So sue me if I didn't want to deal with the stress of what validating your absolutely insane crush would do. I mean, look how bad things got without me stepping in to set you straight. Or gay. Or whatever."_

" _But –"_

" _Validating you is_ _ **dangerous**_ _, Shawn,"_ Gus said, shrugging his shoulders and shooting a glare, his hand on Shawn's shoulder in commiseration. _"Or did you forget what happened at the Mexican border? Because I haven't, and I'd really like to."_

He'd paused, and Shawn had furrowed his brow, his mind racing.

" _Both times."_

" _Gus, no. I just…"_

Shawn shook his head, refusing to believe it.

" _There was no way you knew Lassie was into me before I did. There is just no way."_

Gus had sighed, that same exasperated sigh he'd made two hours into their heated discussion about who the best James Bond was. It was obviously Connery, but the sound meant that not only did Gus disagree, he was also serious. Seriously serious.

" _Okay, you want proof?"_ Gus said. _"Let me be you for a minute and I'll list off all the ways anyone with half a brain would have noticed."_

Shawn had cocked his head, unsure of what Gus was getting at but willing to listen.

" _He wrestled you against a kitchen counter in a display of dominance both Juliet and I thought looked like pornography. It was weird, Shawn. Men who aren't into men don't do that."_

He flicked a finger up, indicating that was the first of many examples, ignoring Shawn as his face turned red, the psychic wondering when exactly Gus and Jules had discussed it and how uncomfortable his pal had been when Jules – because he just _knew_ it had been Jules – had brought up the idea of porn _._

" _When he wants us off a case, if his hands aren't wrapped around your shoulders, his fingers are at the nape of your neck as he drags you away. Almost buried in your hair, really."_ Gus added as an afterthought. _"Which, because you are a hair narcissist, you would hate if it were anyone but him."_

Shawn squawked in disbelief but Gus continued, talking over the noise and raising a second finger.

" _It's_ _ **super**_ _intimate and honestly, a little uncomfortable to watch. I only do that to women I'm actually dating, dude. And I'm not nearly as aggressive as Lassiter is when he's got his hands all over you."_

" _That's because you, my friend, are both a gentleman and a scholar,"_ Shawn had replied, tipping his imaginary hat in mockery. _"But… really, Gus? Don't you think you're reaching –"_

Gus shushed him by interrupting with a slightly sarcastic tone.

" _Really, Shawn,"_ he'd insisted _. "I don't get manhandled like that. I get angry glares at best. But you? You get lingering lust-filled glances and the full-body press. It's like… it's like watching the first half of an erotically charged belly-to-belly suplex. You're Hacksaw Jim Duggan and you're giving Lassiter the wood."_

" _Okay,"_ Shawn had begrudgingly admitted, holding back a laugh. _"You may have a point. And while I appreciate you likening my dick to Hacksaw's two-by-four, or maybe Lassie's dick's the two-by-four since he's the one with the –"_

" _Shawn."_

Gus groaned out his name like it had personally offended him _._

" _Please stop."_

" _Hey, it's not my metaphor,"_ Shawn replied with an impish grin _. "You're the one who said it."_

Gus scowled, clearly kicking himself for choice of phrases. _"And I am regretting every word."_

" _Okay, but would you really want Lassie to –"_

" _No. No I wouldn't. And I'm grateful he's never given me many nasty looks either, but that's only because he's always been too busy making googly eyes at you."_

A third finger hit the air as Gus continued.

" _Did you never notice how he lets you bug him?"_

Shawn's jaw hit the floor at that one, indignant and ready to argue the point. He might concede the others, but Gus must have been smoking something silly if he thought that Lassie had ever been down to clown, the man always exuberantly exclaiming his irritation with Shawn's antics and promptly trying to eject him from his presence.

" _He does not! Lassie hates it when I annoy him. He's said so himself!"_

" _C'mon, son. We both know that's not true,"_ Gus had scoffed. _"There is a fine line between love and hate and it's always been obvious that he loves when you make him hate you. You remember your hand on his head during the Sirtis case? Or the way you dazzle and stretched your way into his lap when we were investigating those fake suicides?"_

" _Yeah. So?"_

" _Do you also remember how he didn't stop you or tell you to get off until well after the fact? Who would let a grown-ass man sit on them like that if they weren't totally into them, Shawn? Especially in the middle of their boss's office! It was either a façade or you had pushed him to his breaking point. I bet he was,"_ Gus shuddered, _"_ _ **aroused**_ _by it. You probably gave him an –"_

He stopped, then scrunched his face like the word was on the tip of his tongue and tasted like poison.

" _Well, you know,"_ he managed to get out after a moment, 'erection' refusing to pass his lips.

" _I – um,"_

Shawn had begun to protest but paused, realizing Gus was on to something but not wanting to admit that he was right. Lassie _had_ let him crawl onto him and say his spiel. But when he'd ordered him off his lap with a clenched jaw, it had been right quick. Shawn hadn't much thought about it before, but he wouldn't be surprised if it was because the cop had been on his way to Boner City, population: them.

" _Whatever,"_ he had replied, trying to deflect _. "What else ya got?"_

" _How about the way his leg always seems to press against yours whenever you're sitting on his desk 'annoying' him?"_

A fourth finger.

" _The look on his face when he found out you slept with Leiken?"_

A fifth.

" _The fact that he let you de-tie him and talk about his chest hair when we went undercover speed-dating? Or that he bought you back your bike after the Panitch trial? And what about him standing up in a court of law in the first place, admitting you were helpful while wearing the little half-smile that you wouldn't shut up about for a week and a half afterwards?"_

Sixth, seventh and eighth in quick succession. Shawn almost felt like he was being shot at, no way to deny it or defend himself against any of what Gus had said.

Then the ninth, bomb dropped.

" _How about how he's always been the one to warn you off something dangerous, almost like he cares about you?"_

" _I – he – you –"_ Shawn blustered, flustered.

" _He cares about you, Shawn. He has for a long time. Do you really need me to go on?"_

Shawn slumped back against his chair and crossed his arms in defeat, responding with a harrumph. _"No, I guess not."_

" _So, if I was able to figure it out from all that, there's no reason for him not to have known. Especially because you've been just as obvious as he has. He's had three years to deduce both your crush and his,"_ Gus pointed out, a fact that should have been obvious, _"and if he's taken this long to do it, that's on him, not on you. It's also not on you that he freaked out. From what you said, everything was consensual, so it's not your fault if he changed his mind after you guys did… what you did. He's a total cocksucker for trying to say otherwise."_

Shawn shot him a sad smile.

" _No, Gus. I was the cocksucker. That's the problem. You're not paying attention."_

" _Shut up, Shawn. If anything, I'm paying too much attention. And the problem is that he's wanted you for a really long time and now that he knows he can have you, he's scared. It's understandable, but that's still no excuse for what he did and if he weren't a cop, I'd be slashing his tires for how he treated you right now."_

" _You'd be out committing a crime instead of consoling me? I don't know if that's awful or awesome,"_ Shawn said, getting up and walking to the fridge for another beer. _"Either way, I'm touched. I'm Roma Downey and you're Della Reese and this may not be Wednesday night early evening programming, but it's still questionably good-quality tv."_

" _Tess was her mentor, but Monica was a celestial being, too, remember?" Gus sighed. "Neither of them got touched by an angel, Shawn. They were the angels."_

" _That's not how I recall it. I remember some angels, some ladies, no clothes and lots of touching,"_ Shawn beamed, opening the bottle and taking a swig, hoping it would help wash the bitter taste from his mouth and from his mind. _"Mind you, I could be mixing it up with that skin-flick I watched last weekend."_

" _Shaaaawn…"_

" _Fine. You're right, I'm wrong. You're smart and I'm dumb. You're the attention master supreme,"_ Shawn said sarcastically, _"and I whole-heartedly apologize. You're also a big fat liar and I don't think I'm coming to you for relationship advice anymore."_

" _Good. You don't listen to me when I give it anyway. But but please listen to me when I tell you this,"_ Gus replied, his laugh tapering off to a solemn look and matching tone as he stared at Shawn with a disconcerting look. " _Even if Lassie thinks what you guys did was a mistake, telling you that you_ _ **were**_ _one is just low. Do you really want to be with someone who would treat you like that? It's a red flag, dude. A big ol' rainbow hued red flag."_

Shawn wished he could say Gus's warnings would have helped earlier had he given them, but he knew that wasn't the case. When he wanted something, he went after that something almost recklessly and there was nothing Gus could have done to stop him outside of tying him to his motorcycle and sending it spinning into the ocean.

And maybe not even then.

" _I'm not a liar though, Shawn,"_ Gus had said, reaching out for the last slice of pepperoni and taking a bite once he'd snagged it. Thinking for a moment, he'd swallowed, then added, _"Not unless it's really important. That's your thing. I'm done being you. It's too tiring."_

Shawn wrinkled his nose in disagreement. _"Screw that, Gus. Being me is awesome. Except for this heartbreak thing. But… I gotta know. Was there anything you said when I told you about Lassie that was true?"_

Gus had thought for a moment, taking time for deep consideration and ignoring Shawn when he started to hum the Jeopardy theme.

" _The only true thing I did say,"_ he started, _"I still stand by – you must be out your damn mind. No, you must be out your damn mind and I think you're stupid either way. I tried to dissuade you for good reason, dude. Lassie was bad news when he tried to lock you up and he's bad news now. I'm sorry it had to turn out this way, but maybe it's for the best. I mean, better it happened now then after you went and fell in love with him, right?"_

So, Gus had known and hadn't said anything, trying to save Shawn a pain he'd wound up suffering anyway. But try as he might, he couldn't let it go – couldn't let _Lassie_ go – and now he sat on the man's couch with a gun in his face, having been in love for a while and kind of hating himself for it. Shawn's stupid feelings were forcing him to pay the worst possible price for his efforts, because though neither had known the steps, it had been a dance between he and Lassie from the start. And Shawn had just face-planted in front of the judges, hoping to hell that he didn't earn them the lowest score and get them kicked off the show called life.

Unfortunately, instead of the foxy Carrie Ann Inaba, Shawn was stuck with Drimmer as the judge, and the dastardly detective didn't seem to be a fan of the flamboyant psychic mambo, the clean cop cha-cha, or the 'let Shawn live' lambada. Much as Drimmer said he wasn't going to be killing Shawn, the psychic had a sneaking suspicion things were a hairsbreadth away from getting bad – badder than the bad things already were – which meant that he had to sit and wait with his mouth closed, hoping Lassie would see through Drimmer's lame attempt at subterfuge and show up to save him and clear his own damn name.

His head in his hands, Shawn's fingers clutched at his no longer perfectly coifed hair and he wondered how he'd gotten himself into this mess in the first place. How he'd let his confused and misguided feelings over-ride the shred of sensibility he'd had left in his head, How the hell he'd managed to become the damsel in distress, sitting and waiting for the big strong man to come and save him.

All he needed now was a shiny crown and a pretty pink dress and he'd be Princess Peach, kickin' it in the last castle until Mario showed up and blew Bowser to smithereens on his behalf.

It would have been easier had Shawn been able to hate Lassie after that night in the pub. He'd had plenty of reason to be pissed after all, and though he was still hurt by the man's words – though he stared at the ceiling on the nights he found himself unable to sleep feeling stripped of his skin and his defenses and the thing that made his heart beat – he couldn't do it. Instead, he wrapped himself up in the tone, the pain and the rejection of Lassie's words, saddened by the fact that the man he loved could be so cold and cruel and focusing on the feelings of inadequacy that came with knowing he had thought Shawn a mistake.

And still, Shawn couldn't hate him.

Shawn wished he knew what was wrong with him, how he'd let the man get so deep under his skin. Lassie was an addiction – his very own personal affliction – and if there had been a rehab center for coming off the high of a lanky, cranky cop, Shawn would have admitted himself using Gus's credit card number right quick. Unfortunately there wasn't, so he was left trying to clean himself up using nothing but willpower and his work for the PD as a Lassidone clinic; the little hits he got from his interactions with the Head Detective reminding him why his relationship with the man had blown up in his face but also making him miss what they'd had and the possibility of what they could have been.

God, he felt like an emo drama queen, half a step away from shopping at Hot Topic and bemoaning his failed romance to anyone who would listen. If only he could Marty McFly his way back to six months ago and avoid ever daring Lassie to kiss him, erasing the act that lit the fuse on this melodramatic firework that was his life. But no matter how many times he danced the Time Warp, Shawn was never going to be able to, always stuck in the present he'd created, which didn't seem much like a present at all.

In fact, it was possibly the worst gift he'd ever given himself.

Not only that, but he was mixing his pop-culture metaphors, which was a major sign he might have a concussion, that knuckle-sandwich Drimmer had fed him having KO'd Shawn so hard he could have been mistaken for one of the weaker Street Fighter II characters.

His head hurt. His head hurt, and his heart hurt, and he had a fucking gun on him. His day unable to get any better, Shawn threw his feet up on the table, figuring he might as well kick back, relax, and wait for the hammer of the gun to drop. He wasn't talking his way out of this one any time soon, after all, and Lassie would be here any time now. For better or worse, maybe even 'til death do they part.

It didn't take long. Five minutes later, the door opened, Drimmer hidden behind it.

When Shawn saw Lassie, his knees went week, his palms sweaty. His entire body felt heavy and he was really glad he hadn't eaten any of that left-over spaghetti cause he felt sick to his stomach – vomit ready but not having yet spilled all over his ugly yellow polo.

Huh. Maybe he really was concussed.

"Spencer, get your feet off my table," Lassie snapped, looking relieved to see him. "How the hell'd you get in my place?"

Drimmer stepped out from the shadows, his presence answering the question.

Time for the show to begin.


	17. It's Only Love

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **It's Only Love**

 ** _*This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 11: Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing_**

 ** _** The accompanying song is_** ** _It's Only Love by Bryan Adams & Tina Turner_**

* * *

Carlton sped back to his place, running through three red lights, two stop signs, and not giving a single fuck about getting pulled over for either. If some jackass threw on their cherries, he thought, well... the more the merrier, welcome to the party, it's nice to have the accidental backup; this situation is _fucked_.

If he _was_ right, if the text _had_ been because there was a gun to Shawn's head, that meant the psychic's life was on the line. And when weighed against that peril, the repercussions Carlton would have to face for speeding were nothing less than negligible.

He hoped to hell Spencer was on his front lawn waiting with information to share.

That it was all some big mistake; maybe the pain in the ass pulling a prank of some sort, taking the opportunity to prey on Carlton's uncommon vulnerability.

It would be just like Shawn to fuck with him – albeit in this scenario, a much crueler version of the man – and it was odd that _that_ was what Carlton was hoping for. Never before had he wanted to be fucked with so badly. And even odder, he was both happy and uncharacteristically willing to forgive and forget should fuckery be the case.

Dear God, how he hoped fuckery was the case.

It wasn't.

The yard was empty; his lights on.

Spencer was nowhere to be found.

Carlton broke into a cold sweat, a sinking feeling in his chest. Shawn wasn't there. Shawn wasn't there and while that didn't mean he'd broken into Carlton's house like he had too many times before, the intuition that led him to become Head Detective left him feeling like there was nothing for them but danger ahead.

Made him think that there was nothing but heartache and sorrow on the other side of that door.

That instead of the lively and loquacious fake, he'd find a broken and bloody body lying on the floor, the wonder that was Shawn Spencer having left the building at the tip of a bullet.

 _Fuck_.

Bile rising in his throat, Carlton swallowed, fighting to steady his shaking hands and trying his damnedest not to panic. His fingers curled around his keys and, pulling them from his pocket, he steeled himself to be gutted like a fish; his stomach churning with every step as he raced across the lawn.

 _Where the hell are you, Spencer?_

He just had to be okay.

He had to.

* * *

Carlton spotted the sullen psychic instantly, Shawn sitting on his couch with his feet kicked up – almost as if he was relaxing at the world's worst day spa. Had he been a crying kind of man, the Head Detective might have wept with joy. Might have even laughed while doing so. Instead, he entered the room chastising, overcome with emotion and unable to process it, his _'thank god you're alive'_ and ' _I can't begin to tell you how worried I was'_ coming out as a snappish 'Spencer, get your feet off my table!' and 'How the hell'd you get in my place?'.

It didn't matter how he'd managed, though.

Shawn was alive, and Shawn was safe. He wasn't dead or hurt or dying, which meant his kissable, _insufferable_ mouth was likely to start flapping at any moment – knowing Spencer, probably about something stupid. And for once, Carlton couldn't wait. Right then, he needed to hear the man's voice – needed to hear him say something stupid, something senseless and trivial and inane – to make sure that he was okay. To make sure he was still _Shawn_. Important things like locked doors and boundaries and rules about where feet should and should not be could be saved for later.

But his excitement at finding the fake in one piece blinded him to the fact that they weren't alone. To the fact that there was a dastardly asshole hiding behind the door with a deadly weapon in his hands. Shawn's face had been a distraction, the look on it more so and thanking god his fears hadn't been made reality, Carlton made a rookie mistake in failing to clear the room before he lowered his guard. And because he'd allowed his emotions to override his strong sense of logic that Drimmer was able to get the drop on him.

The man stepped out in the open, a gun shoved in Carlton's face.

Not just any gun. One of _his_ guns, lifted from evidence by Drimmer's ink-stained sticky fingers – the one from his nightstand, by the looks of it. His personal favorite, it just made him hate the man more.

"I can't believe you thought that text was from me."

To absolutely no one's surprise, Shawn began to bitch.

Carlton just stared, the inanity the psychic had chosen to respond with surprising. The claptrap usually annoyed him, but if he hadn't been trying to wrap his mind around how Shawn thought a lack of smiley face was more important than a crooked cop, it would have been music to Carlton's ears. He hadn't believed for a second that it had been the psychic texting him, of course, and he wondered how his barging in with gun drawn hadn't alerted Shawn to that – wondered and worried that the usually perceptive man was so much less observant than he was every other day.

Perhaps Spencer was concussed or stalling for time.

Perhaps he was playing dumb, or his priorities were just that skewed.

He didn't know, but he also couldn't much care, too busy focusing on the jackass with the gun.

If there was one thing he hated above all else, it was a dirty cop. Dirty cops made them _all_ look bad. They took the motto of 'to serve and protect' and twisted it, applying the words to only themselves and endangering the whole of society in the process. Carlton hadn't liked it when someone colored outside the lines in kindergarten and he certainly didn't approve of someone in a position of power trying now, especially using innocent lives instead of crappy crayons to scribble all over the police code of ethics.

That's why it was with much glee that he called the man a low-life scum-sucking bastard.

The rage he felt at Drimmer's betrayal made it easy to forget about his feelings of defeat and despair. To forget how low he'd been and how his head had spun. To forget all about the anxiety he'd had. And it was in that moment of clarity he realized his recent problems hadn't been his own fault at all. They'd all been, thanks to this dirty-dealing douche-bag in front of him.

Screw him and his fake suicide plan.

Carlton's gaze hardened to steel. Cringing, he watched the pistol smash against the side of Shawn's skull, powerless to stop it and sickened by the sound of metal meeting flesh. The sound of his foe's voice faded in the background as his fear for Shawn's safety took over. Drimmer's tone became nothingness, a buzzing in his ears as his focus sharpened on the psychic clutching his head in pain.

He wanted to reach out to comfort him but knew that he couldn't.

Wanted to somehow make this all okay.

Make everything all okay.

But he _couldn't._

Just one more thing he wanted Drimmer dead for.

Perhaps even more insufferable than Spencer was, Drimmer continued, spinning a story of former lovers and a relationship gone wrong; a murder suicide written in the stars.

There was no way anyone would believe it, of course; not when they'd been careful to keep their failed relationship from the prying ears of their colleagues or if you considered who both men really were and how unlikely Carlton was to kill himself even _if_ he occasionally threatened to murder Shawn. But Carlton stumbled when he heard the speech, nonetheless.

It was a deflection, he knew. A ruse to throw off the authorities and to throw him off as well, but…

The best lies began with a grain of truth. He'd been taught that years ago in the academy, and it had never left him. So what had Drimmer seen? More importantly, how did he know enough to rile him this way?

The fact that _this_ was the story he'd chosen was a little more than disconcerting and had it been any other time, Carlton would have considered it further. But Shawn protested, an agonized exclamation as he curled up on the end of Carlton's couch escaping his lips, the man becoming yet again the perfect distraction.

"Former lovers? Really?!"

The vehemence with which the psychic spoke was shocking.

Maybe Spencer was more pissed than he had been letting on.

Maybe, while Carlton had been lamenting and questioning how to get back into Shawn's good graces, Shawn had been hiding thinly veiled contempt.

Maybe he was as upset as he deserved to be and after this his would tell Carlton to 'suck it' like the cop had expected he would from the start.

But none of that mattered either. It couldn't.

Nothing could, not with the three of them tangled together in this twisted mess of a hostage situation.

Nothing would until it was over. Then everything would matter.

Everything would matter in a way it hadn't ever mattered before.

"It's called misinformation; he's hoping they won't look too closely," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. To keep both Shawn and Drimmer calm and de-escalate the situation, even though he felt like doing the exact opposite.

He wanted to shoot Drimmer, then. Put a bullet right between his eyes and then kick him with his wing-tipped shoes while he was dying.

Carlton had been rendered powerless because of this man, due to the actions of this traitor to the badge. His career, his reputation, his self-esteem – they had all been negatively affected by the dastardly deeds of the dirty detective standing in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to make him pay and had he been a lesser man, vengeance would have been enacted.

Had he been a lesser man, he wouldn't just be picturing murder, he'd be committing it.

Instead –

"You are one sick twist, Drimmer," Carlton sneered.

Drimmer smiled, clearly proud of himself, and turned to point the gun at Shawn.

"I know," he said.

Shawn sat up suddenly, hand flying to his head. Objecting, he looked at Carlton with desperation in his eyes, insisting that his psychic powers were taking over. Carlton looked back, equally desperate but trying not to show it.

He had trusted Spencer, and now Spencer was trusting him.

"I'm getting something. Sensing something. Something wild. _Something_ in The Way You Look Tonight. Deep Blue _something_ -" the psychic stuttered.

Shifting backwards, Carlton frowned. It was just a fraction that he moved, then, once the crooked cop turned his attention on Shawn just like he had planned, a fraction more.

"Do you ever stop talking?!"

No. No, Shawn never did. Carlton had once thought it the worst thing about the man, but now – now he was coming to realize his words weren't just there to fill space. It wasn't just a deflection. They weren't just to annoy. Talking was Spencer's god-damn _superpower_ and he was never more glad for it.

Carlton dashed into his kitchen at the turn of Drimmer's head.

His instincts taking over, he reached for the gun stashed in his breadbox, face falling when he found it empty. Of course it was empty. It was one of the five his co-workers had managed to find when they'd gone through his place. There were three more in the house he doubted had been bagged and tagged, but as Drimmer taunted him with the knowledge of his missing weaponry, he realized he was never going to make it to his hi-fi or his shower to grab them. Instead, he had to hope to hell the one stashed on the counter was still there.

For a moment – a serious, glorious moment – Carlton debated throwing the metal container at the man's head instead, just to prove he didn't need a firearm to take the fucker down.

 _Enough. Just… enough!_ he thought, stalking towards the center island where he knew victory lay in the most unsuspecting of places. _Amateur hour is over._

"Hey. Hey, stop it. What are you doing?"

 _This is my house._

He moved forward gracefully, as if there wasn't a weapon pointed at Shawn's head. As if he didn't have the weight of the world – his world _and_ Shawn's – on his shoulders.

Y _ou took my job._

Carlton took a step.

 _You took my partner._

"Stop that. Back off!"

Then another.

 _You took everything from me,_ he seethed.

This was going to end. Right here, right now.

A bullet in someone's body, regardless of whose it was.

He was tired of being a fucking victim.

No more. No _fucking_ more.

 _Like hell you're taking this, too._

Carlton could kill the man. Could legally get away with it, the current situation making it as permissible as it could be. It would make selling the house harder when the time came, of course. Make getting promoted to Chief of Police tougher, too. And, he supposed, it would eventually weigh on his conscience, though in that moment he couldn't care less.

He would care eventually though, so he worked to keep his blaze of righteous indignation at a dull roar, his frustrations burning bright behind his gaze.

"Stop tha-" Drimmer began, realizing too late that he had something to be afraid of.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Carlton did not 'stop that' but continued on, focused on putting an end to the drama. Focused on saving Shawn and himself and putting this scumbag away. Focused on doing everything he could to survive 'til tomorrow.

And the tomorrow after that.

And the one after that.

Seeing the grim determination on Carlton's face, Shawn pounced at Drimmer's wrist and grabbed at the man with both hands, pushing the pistol upwards and out of the way.

Carlton knew this was his chance to act – maybe his only chance – and plunged his hand into the decorative bowl of pistachios on the counter, retrieving his Colt Mustang. Like the hero cowboy in one of his ol' western films, he aimed one-handed, the bullet leaving the chamber and piercing Drimmer through the left shoulder. As the dirty detective dropped to the floor, Spencer wrestled the gun from his grip, bounding over some furniture and touching Carlton's arm as he passed it over, mere moments before backup burst through the door.

The touch caused a fluttering feeling in his chest and Carlton did his best to ignore it, choosing to nod at O'Hara, amused by the impressed look on her face. She surveyed the scene, obviously proud he had the situation under control, and his adrenaline raced as he breathed deep, focusing on the fact that Spencer Sr. and Guster flanked her to calm himself. The men looked equally shocked and relieved to see Shawn on his feet, unsteady though the psychic may be, and Carlton felt himself relax, knowing that things were finally going to be okay.

 _Maybe I don't have to worry so much after all_ …

He tucked one of the pistols away, wondering how the hell he had ever gotten low enough to question her loyalty in the first place. The blonde dropped her weapon and smiled, her face as smug as he felt, the look worth more than a thousand words and making him feel better than he had in a long while. But quickly, Shawn begin to sway, the man likely concussed and unaware of it.

Carlton's brow furrowed at the sight, his worry for the man flaring back up.

"Hi-fi? Lassie, you were so cool a second ago," the psychic said, voice laden in affectionate disappointment. He tottered backward, caught by his father as the man kept him upright.

 _Not cool?_

Carlton ejected the bullet casing from the Barretta, catching it with ease. He turned his head to shoot an insouciant glare at the psychic, then smiled at the dumbstruck man standing before him.

 _Not cool my ass._

* * *

Carlton had been up half the night trying to figure out how to have a conversation with Spencer.

Not a conversation, _the_ conversation.

Well, maybe not _the_ conversation, because he still had no idea what he felt – not really. Or at least, not to the extent that let him feel comfortable talking about it. All he _did_ know was that he had to thank the man somehow. And while that didn't necessarily mean that he needed to act on whatever feelings he _did_ have, he could no longer admit that they weren't there.

In the end, Carlton decided he wouldn't have the conversation at all.

His world had been shaken to its core the last few days and he'd be willing to give almost anything to get his life back on track, including actually showing his emotions if that's what it took. Which is why, unable to sleep with so much on his mind, he hoped to get the encounter over and done with sooner rather than later.

Even though he had just requisitioned time off, the detective turned up at work the next day anyway. The comings and goings at the SBPD being the psychic's favorite daytime drama, Spencer would be there – without a shadow of a doubt, Carlton knew this – the pretty pest likely to be found hovering around O'Hara like a vulture circling its prey. And he planned on using that to his advantage, looking to find a way to move forward from the limbo they'd been in, hopefully in the easiest way possible.

Carlton showed up in a suit just like always, and, just like always, scowled at those who looked like they were dumb enough to lob questions his way. Not planning on staying longer than it took to get debriefed, he hadn't grabbed his usual coffee, and scant seconds after leaving Vick's office, Spencer and Guster sauntered into the station. He couldn't have timed it more perfectly if he'd tried and wasn't even slightly shocked by the development.

"Hellllllllo, Lassie!"

Happy to see Spencer for once, Carlton looked up, stifling a smile as he tried to look surprised by their presence, the warm drawl of his name from the psychic's lips making him feel kind of fuzzy inside.

He'd done a lot of thinking over the last few days –

Thinking of their highs and lows.

The kisses shared.

The accusations and affection and affirmations between them.

The way Shawn had stepped up for him and the things he'd learned about not just the man he was but the man he wanted to be – all the important thoughts he'd been trying so hard to avoid.

And at the conclusion of these thoughts, he had finally given himself permission to enjoy the man's company. But only every once in a while.

Oblivious to Carlton's thoughts, Spencer continued, Guster standing at his side.

"How's our favorite exonerated-murderer-slash-dirty-cop-catcher doing?"

Shawn teased almost lovingly. Unable to help himself, Carlton let his smile slip free.

He didn't know how pissed the psychic was, how much of his reaction to Drimmer had been an act, or even if they had anything more than a chance at a working future between them. But he did have great appreciation for everything Psych had done for him, and he told them so, his eyes locked on Shawn the whole time.

The moment stretched. A second that felt like forever when he realized how open he'd just been, he did what he did best to distract from that uncomfortable feeling: deflected.

"But, look – I do have something for you," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two envelopes. Surprised, the duo grinned and Carlton couldn't help but savor the unwarranted excitement. "More of a token, really."

He beamed when their faces fell, Guster pulling out the coupon with a flat, clearly unimpressed look on his face.

"Free chips with any sandwich purchased at Hal's Hoagies."

Far too proud of himself, Carlton glanced at Shawn, reveling in the man's reaction.

They wouldn't be them if they didn't fuck with each other, after all, even in trying or heartfelt times. _Especially_ in trying or heartfelt times.

This – this coupon and compliment and fucked up version of a heartfelt thank you – would hopefully remind Shawn of that. Hopefully remind him that after all was said and done, he was still Shawn Spencer and Carlton was still Carlton Lassiter and there would never be a day when they didn't have this weird, messed up, competitive, emotionally charged kind of comradery between them.

They might yell and fight, they might save each other's asses, they might even one day kiss and make up; Carlton had no clue. But the one thing he _could_ guarantee was that they would always piss each other off. More importantly, they would enjoy doing so. It was the backbone of their relationship – had been since the beginning, as a matter of fact – and regardless of what that relationship was to become, Carlton wouldn't change it for the world.

Turning away, he remembered the check in his jacket pocket, the cherry on top of this deliciously awkward interaction sundae. He looked back at the Psych team and, taking them by surprise, opened his mouth again, the words he spoke the best they'd heard all day.

"Oh, hey, I do have something else for you." He snapped the crisp paper in front of Shawn, who gasped as his gaze followed the money Carlton held in hand. "I got the Chief to finally sign your check."

"Sweet!" Guster exclaimed, snatching it from the detective before his best friend had a chance.

Carlton nodded his head at Shawn, his smile gentle, a softer look in his eyes than usual. He didn't know what was going to come next – wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know what was going to come next – but he was sure it was going to be better than the last few weeks had been, and that was good enough for him. He had his job back, he had his partner back, and he was starting to make sense of the mess that was in his head. He couldn't change what the world threw at him, nor could he change how horrible he had been, but he _could_ make strides toward the future and toward being a Carlton Lassiter he was comfortable with. Maybe for the first time in his entire life.

"Catch you later," he had said to the psychic as he turned to leave, the sense of lightness and lilt of hope in his voice unable to be hidden.

For once, Shawn just stared, obviously noting it but unable to comment, the reaction clearly unexpected.

Because Carlton had said it before, of course.

But this time he meant every word.


	18. Wicked Game

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **** **Wicked Game**

 _ ***This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 12: Earth, Wind and... Wait For It**_

 _ **** The accompanying song is Wicked Game by Chris Isaak**_

* * *

The building exploded.

The building exploded, and Carlton's knees went out from under him, and it felt like he was drowning, suffocating in his own sorrow.

His head throbbed.

His ears rang.

He struggled to breathe.

Every cell in his body screamed for oxygen because in his worry over Spencer, he had forgotten he needed it to survive.

Carlton had just assured O'Hara on the ride over that Shawn would be fine. He said he would be fine, but when she shot him an odd look for it, Carlton knew she'd noticed his slip. And while it was quickly forgotten upon their arrival, the worst distraction possible raining down around them, he found himself willing to give anything to have to explain his use of Spencer's name, if only because it would mean that the man was somehow still alive.

Shawn was practically indestructible, he had told her.

He had to be fine, he had said.

And yet…

The heat from the explosion singed Carlton's skin; squinting, he threw his arm over his face to protect his eyes. Debris fell from the sky, projected through the air as the monstrous flames burst outward, enveloping the building in a deadly heat.

The fire crackled, embers sparking off into the atmosphere as the building's wooden beams splintered and scorched and screeched, burning with what felt like the intensity of a thousand suns.

Well, that was it then.

Spencer was dead.

Spencer was dead, and the hopes and dreams Carlton had never even realized he had died with him.

Ready to use the smoke as an excuse for why his eyes were rimmed red, Carlton blinked back the tears threatening to spill and forced himself to remain stoic. Forced himself to avoid acknowledging Spencer's untimely demise. He couldn't break down here. Not now, not like this. But his soul felt like it was being torn asunder, something he couldn't let anybody know – not even his partner.

Not when he struggled to process it, himself.

Carlton was dumbstruck.

Gobsmacked.

Astounded.

He choked on the air, thick and cloying around them, and grabbed O'Hara's arm for balance, needing to steady himself. To _ground_ himself. Anything to balance his shaken emotions. In that moment – that long, painful, _agonizing_ moment – he and O'Hara were the only two left in the world. And, connected by a heart-wrenching agony, their legs shook as they took in the sight before them.

Time had frozen; sights and sounds and smells rushed around him, yet Carlton was still, his heart fracturing into a thousand pieces in the slowest of motions.

He stared.

His heart broke, and he stared.

Hoping it was a sick joke, he stared.

The world wasn't cruel enough to rip Shawn away, was it?

Not now.

Not like _this_.

No. No, it couldn't be.

Smoke billowed from the decimated building as the cop gawked. And though seemingly impossible, after a second that seemed like eternity, Carlton thought he saw a shadow of a man in the distance through the door.

 _No._

 _No way._

 _No_ _**fucking** __way._

* * *

It had been a long day.

Not only did Carlton feel it deep in his bones, but it showed; broken heart written all over his face, it cast a pallor upon the cop that made him look as sick as he felt.

O'Hara had taken a single glance at his wan and worn complexion before reassuring him that she could post a guard on Johnson's hospital room alone, allowing him to wander off to wherever he needed to be to collect himself.

 _Ordering_ him to wander off to wherever he needed to be to collect himself.

Were they dealing with normal circumstances, Carlton never would have left her, his ego and rank as Commanding Officer overriding her abilities and insistence. But this was the farthest thing from normal they'd dealt with in a long time – Spencer's near annihilation shaking him to the core – so off he went, letting her call the shots as she pleased while he shuffled aimlessly away from the scene.

He couldn't remember agreeing to go.

Couldn't recall his departure, either.

But he had done both and that more than anything let Carlton know how badly the explosion had fucked him up.

Meandering away, he sighed, and as he passed the Blueberry by, he gave the vehicle a melancholic glance – the car just one more thing that triggered memories of the fear he felt when he saw the explosion.

The explosion didn't matter, though.

The boys were okay. That was the important thing.

 _Shawn_ was okay.

And he was glad of it. But he was also fully unable to process the hell he felt inside when he thought the opposite true, echoes of those emotions both lingering and strangling.

Carlton felt half-ready to laugh or cry or maybe punch Spencer in the head for the stress caused by his unnecessary heroics, the cop entirely incapable of dealing with people in his current state. Instead, he leaned against the wall of a building near the one that had become a burnt-out shell of itself, glad he'd been gifted the opportunity to sort himself out.

Step one was burying his head in his hands as he tried to shut out the sounds of reality around him. Technically part of the active crime scene, the wall he leaned against should have been off-limits, but Carlton didn't care. It wasn't a priority space and with the damage done at the main location it would be hours before someone wandered this way. So, screw anyone who tried to get him to move.

Step two?

Well, so tired he almost couldn't think straight, Carlton hadn't gotten that far.

It wasn't just that he was tired, though – he was weary. Worn down and exhausted from the thoughts he'd been inundated with, he sank slowly into the grass, recalling his desperate deflection in Dr. Foster's office as he rested on his haunches amongst the rocks and reeds. It was amazing to see how far he had come in such a short amount of time – but, he supposed, it was probably because life had forced introspection he was unlikely to have pursued otherwise.

Carlton didn't care, though. The work as hard as it had been, he was claiming credit anyway.

Taking a deep breath, he tried and failed to steady himself.

Twenty minutes had passed since the blast, yet his pulse still raced, adrenaline surging through him like electricity.

It wasn't because of the fire, he knew.

Shawn was dead.

Shawn _wasn't_ dead.

He was a husk of a man, a blackened corpse lying broken on the cold hard ground while the building burned around him.

He was a hero, a man invincible as he not only somehow withstood the blast and smoke inhalation but managed to rescue the damsel in distress, all the while barely breaking a sweat.

Though it seemed ridiculous, the latter was true. Yet Carlton's brain just couldn't shake the alternate reality he had briefly lived in. He tried to think of something else, _anything_ _else_ , but somehow always wound up accidentally playing Six Degrees of Shawn Spencer, his thoughts and fears and feelings blurring across the back of his closed lids.

 _Don't be a deep-fried jelly donut, Lassie! How can you not know why you kissed somebody?_ Shawn exclaimed in Carlton's car, prodding him into uncomfortable conversational territory.

Spencer dropping to his knees in the bar, asking him if he was sure, not wanting to pressure him into something he would regret.

Him agreeing, then regretting it anyway.

He had been such a bastard.

Shawn had wanted to make sure he wasn't taking advantage and Carlton had wound up taking advantage of him instead.

He remembered how he'd first dragged Shawn through a darkened doorway at the station, tossing him up against a wall, seething.

How Shawn had responded cockily.

 _Are you chicken, Lassie?_

How the psychic's mouth had tasted when he'd proven he wasn't.

Images flashed past him with increasing speed, as if it had been his own life endangered. Memories mixed and mingled, the reality of the situation bleeding into his brain. Overwhelming him in his solitude.

He shook. And for once letting his feelings overtake his sense of self control, Carlton finally cracked.

Carlton finally cracked.

And he wept.

* * *

The detective had absolutely no desire to open his eyes. He knew his refusal came across as petulant but doing so would force him to acknowledge the presence of his unwelcome company and well… he just didn't wanna.

Carlton had no clue how he'd been snuck up on nor how he hadn't heard the crunch of the gravel underfoot, but he chastised himself for not noticing nonetheless, his solemn reverie no excuse for his distraction. He wasn't sure how long he had been alone for, but since the shadow cast over him indicated the individual had no intention of leaving any time soon, he figured his solitude was over regardless of whether he looked or not.

Face still covered by fingers, his lashes fluttered open a fraction – just enough for him to find himself staring at Spencer's cloth-clad crotch, the man standing a mere foot away and looking down at the detective curiously.

 _Of course, it's Spencer._

He blinked.

 _How could I not have known?_

"Lassie?" Shawn asked, tentative as he noticed Carlton's melancholy. "What's wrong, buddy?"

Carlton inhaled deeply, the smell of burnt gasoline assaulting his senses.

 _Perfect. How the hell does he always find me when I want to be found least?_

Okay, so he hadn't tried too hard to hide this time around. But he _had_ hoped the distance (and his clearly closed off body language) would deflect companionship instead of inviting it. _He_ never would have approached someone in his state.

Carlton should have known better than to expect Shawn would care about his giant red flags, though. Spencer didn't take cues. Or hints. Or abject objections, after all.

Conceding, the cop lowered his hands and looked back, defeated.

"What do you want, Spencer?" he groaned.

"Dude, why has you the grumps? Everything's fine! Nobody died; I saved the girl! What's the deal?"

Flabbergasted, Carlton simply stared, unable to fathom how the psychic didn't see the problem. Shawn was usually such a perceptive son of a bitch – _psychically_ perceptive, he would argue, at which Carlton would argue back, of course – so it was absolutely mind-boggling that he hadn't picked up on what was happening.

"Wha- What's the problem?" he said, laughing in disbelief as he pushed himself to his feet, leaning unsteadily against the wall behind him. "You've got to be kidding me."

Shawn raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the detective towering over him.

"What's going on with you, Lassie?" he asked, concerned.

Carlton laughed again, distress bubbling just beneath the surface.

"What's going on? I thought you fucking died, Spencer!"

Shawn lost his serious look, a quick grin replacing his worry. "Oh, that? That's no big deal, Lassie. That happens like... every other Friday."

Carlton sputtered. Completely taken aback by the psychic's nonchalance over his own mortality, he couldn't understand how the other man didn't get it yet – how he hadn't grasped the enormity of the situation, the enormity of Carlton's feelings. So steeling himself to do something stupid to change that fact, he cocked his head, a near-manic shine in his eyes.

"I thought you fucking _**died**_ , Spencer," he said again, slower this time, his voice steady though his body began to imperceptibly shake.

Spencer opened his mouth to speak.

Carlton silenced him, a raised finger pressed against the psychic's lips.

He needed to keep going, couldn't let the man interrupt, nerve finally gathered enough to bare his heart – a thing far more frightening than any explosion or gunfight or stand-off he'd ever been in. He was Head Detective and, except for when it came to his feelings (which kicked his ass like a rowdy roustabout high on the fumes of too many beers and a bad decision under his belt), he prided himself on having his fear under lock and key. But fear was why he hadn't ever been this open with his ex-wife. And maybe, he realized as the honestly flowed from his mouth, that was part of the reason why his marriage had failed.

But Shawn _wasn't_ Victoria. And that was a good thing.

It meant maybe he could change.

Maybe they could work.

Maybe it would all be worth it.

"I can't believe how terrified I was," he continued.

The words echoed the ones Shawn had once said to him and Shawn swallowed, shivering when the cop took a step forward to invade his personal space.

"What does this have to do with why you're up against a wall by the car, Lass?"

Carlton smiled, his eyes a little sad.

"You were right, Spencer. Life is fleeting, and I need to live it," he said, moving his hand to caress the side of the psychic's face. To touch the thing he'd thrown away out of fear and doubt and confusion – not the man but what he represented: love and hope and freedom, all things Carlton needed and realized he'd never had.

All things Shawn had offered, and Carlton hoped he would offer yet again.

Shawn took a step back and stumbled.

Carlton reached out and caught him by the arm to steady him.

"What are you doing, Lassie?" the man asked, the look on his face questioning as he stared at the hand wrapped around his bicep.

Carlton looked at Shawn intently. Brushed a strand of hair off the psychic's face, excitement and terror burning bright in his eyes.

It was now or never. And if it was never, he might as well just throw himself off a bridge, no other way available to deal with the way he felt.

"Saying the things I'm feeling."

His hand drifted, fingers pushed through the man's lush brown hair. Shawn stifled a gasp and leaned into his touch, haunted hazel eyes closing with a moan as the detective brought them closer together.

Heart soaring, Carlton registered Shawn's response.

His pulse raced – harder, faster, _louder_ – and he felt a little light-headed, like he could drift away on a gentle breeze. But he continued, words he should have spoken long ago tumbling from his lips. Words he once heard from the lips he wanted to capture with his own. Lips he had kissed thrice before and wanted to kiss so very many times more.

"Acting on those feelings before it's too late."

Shawn bit his lip and tilted his head upwards, face almost nuzzling against the detective's.

"Is there a problem with that?" Carlton asked, mouth pressed feather-light against the psychic's as he spoke.

Shawn whimpered, nose skimming across Carlton's jaw in response.

"Didn't think so."

* * *

Carlton licked at Shawn's lower lip.

The taste of the other man's skin exciting him, he did it again, allowing the moment to sear itself into his memory. The feel of the psychic beneath him was pure bliss; the way his mouth moved and body pressed. The thump of his heartbeat against Carlton's chest. The promise that was spoken in the gentleness of their kiss.

Shawn moaned, his body bowing inwards for but a second before -

"Lassie… wait."

The psychic began to speak.

Carlton forgot to breathe.

His stomach twisted at the interruption.

But wait didn't mean stop, and the lack of _stop_ gave him a sliver of hope.

Still -

"Lassie…"

Shawn repeated himself and the detective blinked, the sound unfamiliar – almost distorted by his desire and worry that this was going to blow up in his face worse than the gasoline-soaked building had.

"What are we doing? What is this?"

A lump formed in Carlton's throat.

He swallowed; nerves trying to kick in, he fought them, determined to take control of his own life for once, reason be damned.

"I'm getting out of my own way, Spencer. Isn't that what you wanted?"

It was. And hopefully still would be, though Carlton couldn't wait for an answer. So, he leaned in to kiss the man again, a sure-fire way to quell his anxiety. But instead of mouths colliding, Shawn turned his head and Carlton caught the corner of his pressed-together lips instead.

The psychic stepped back, his hand on Carlton's chest to stop him.

"I thought that you didn't want anything to do with me," he said, eyes cloudy, struggling to keep his lust in check. He continued, clearly a little bitter. "Didn't you say you were done with me, _Carlton_? Aren't I just a mistake?"

At the sound of his name so fraught with disappointment, Carlton let out a breath he hadn't know he'd been holding – Shawn's uncharacteristic reluctance finally making sense as his own cruel words came back to haunt him in the worst possible way.

 _You're disgusting._

Lies.

 _You're crude_

More lies.

 _and rude_

Lies again.

 _and_

He wished he'd never said them.

 _the fact_

That he'd never lashed out.

 _that I let you_

Hurt Shawn this way.

 _do that to me_

Been so scared.

 _makes me sick._

Lies.

All words building a world of untruths.

Carlton felt gut-punched, his guilt intensifying when he realized it was nothing compared to how Shawn must have felt.

How he had _made_ Shawn feel.

 _Get your whore lips off me!_ he had said.

 _Get your whore lips off me!_

and

 _It was a mistake._

and

 _I don't want to be together with you._

But he _did_ want to be together with him, regardless of what he had said in the past. He _desperately_ wanted to be together with him – the explosion making him realize how intensely he required the other man in his life. And the only mistake he had made was taking so long to figure it out, unnecessarily tearing Shawn apart in the process.

Carlton didn't deserve forgiveness, he knew. But he hoped to God the psychic was willing to give it.

Would do anything for it.

Would beg for it, if he had to.

Because what use was shame if it prevented you from experiencing your heart's deepest desire?

"I was wrong. I was _so_ wrong," he said, raising his hand to place it over Shawn's. "There aren't words to express how wrong I was. And I'm sorry."

The psychic's stance softened just a little and Carlton took it as an opportunity to touch him again, his other hand reaching out to caress the side of Shawn's face. Shawn inhaled sharply at the motion and the detective decided then – decided _impulsively_ – to finally take a chance.

Shooting a look to the left, he quickly determined those at the active site were much too busy to notice anything other than themselves –

 _Perfect._

– and gaze filled with as much affection as he could muster, Carlton gripped the hand on his chest and stepped back, forcing Shawn to step with him.

"Let me prove how sorry I am," he said, tugging gently. " _Please_."

Shawn pulled his hand away, uncertain.

"Lassie..." he drawled.

Refusing to allow room for argument, Carlton turned on his heel in one quick motion, moving the three steps it took to place him in front of the half-open warehouse door in the blink of an eye. He'd never felt as nervous as he did right then, but sure the man would be too curious not to follow, paused just long enough to give Shawn a lingering glance before ducking underneath.

How could Spencer _not_ be curious, after all? He was like the cat in the old adage – too damn nosy for his own damn good.

Carlton breathed. And he stood in the dimly lit room, heart thudding in his chest as he waited in what felt like maddening silence, a wry smile on his face as finally he broke it.

"Coming?" he asked the empty room, knowing his voice would carry his message to the ears that needed to hear it.

A moment later, casual runners coated in ash from the smoke, Shawn's shoes shuffled up the to the door. Seeing them approach, Carlton's grin widened, that sliver of hope housed within his chest growing into something so much more.

Something tangible.

A flutter of feeling made profoundly corporeal.

He was there, and Carlton was here, and that could mean anything.

Even the world.

"Lassie, I want answers," Shawn said, upper body hidden behind the entrance as he spoke. Although it was strong, his voice was uncertain and, having never heard the psychic sound this way before – wary and tentative and intrigued and warm – Carlton knew this was likely the fresh start he'd been crossing his fingers for.

Shawn was _intrigued_ , and that more than anything was Carlton's saving grace.

"I absolutely refuse to come unless you give them to me."

He chuckled at Shawn's choice of words, hoping coming would be somewhere in their future sometime soon.

Hoping Shawn would come into the warehouse and back into his life in all the ways he so desperately wanted.

So desperately _needed._

"Absolutely, Spencer," he replied, face glowing as he responded to the man's accidental entendre. "Anything you want."

And he meant it.

He would do anything, he realized, if only given the chance.

And for him, that was huge.

"Anything at all."


	19. Can't Fight This Feeling

(For Mixtape's playlist, go to open+spotify+com/user/zt1bbty6pkws8amec3zc7byt9/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr (replace the + with a .) I highly recommend listening as you read, as they were crafted to go together to enhance the experience.)

* * *

 **Can't Fight This Feeling/I Think We're Alone Now**

 _ ***This chapter takes place after season 3 episode 12: Earth, Wind and... Wait For It**_

 _ **** The accompanying songs are I Can't Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon & I Think We're Alone Now by Tiffany**_

Carlton couldn't help himself; in the few moments since he'd last touched Shawn, he'd been hit with an overwhelming sense of emptiness. He didn't know why, didn't understand the ache he felt deep down inside, but at this point, he also didn't much care, deciding then and there that he was through over-analyzing things. At least for now, when there was something much more important at hand - like the super sexy psychic in front of him, clearly in need of reassurance.

So he pulled Spencer to him and kissed the man intently.

Softly.

Gently.

Long and languid, lips connected. And needing to be in their natural state - Spencer pressed up against a wall, pinned there by his body and his stare and his fear and his desire – Carlton turned so it was Shawn's back against the wall instead of his own.

He couldn't say why, but he needed to feel their chests pressed flush together. Needed to feel their hearts beat against one another - violent, passionate, furious, _ferocious,_ fighting for their lives like two rats in a cage.

He needed to see Shawn's face blush as he towered over the man; see the way he affected the psychic and the way the psychic affected him.

It was their version of normal. And now more than ever, Carlton needed normal, needed it to ground himself; Spencer's acquiescence - his sycophantic smirk and the way his body carted into the not-quite embrace and how his skin felt beneath Carlton's touch, pulse racing at the soft dusting of the cop's wandering fingertips - calming his mind even as it made his blood surge.

Carlton's head felt full of helium, and the shock he felt when he'd thought Shawn dead had proven to be his breaking point, the thing that illuminated the fact that whatever was between them went deeper than two randy men playing at being lusty teenagers. Not that Carlton didn't like playing, of course. But even if he tried, he could no longer deny that it was the precursor to something _more_. Maybe even that feeling of love he had questioned while stealing pudding in the Psych office just a week prior.

It was a thought that shook him to the core. But in the second he'd considered Shawn gone - that single heart-shattering moment in which Shawn was dead, dirt, dust in the wind, never to be seen or heard or yelled at, never to be loved again – Carlton's whole world had been ripped away, the simple act of destruction making him yearn to join the man in oblivion.

Here he had been with someone who would give him anything – literally _anything_ ; love, affection, acknowledgement, challenge, a chase, a place, a really good reason to wake up in the morning – and he had rebuffed his advances because he was stupid and brainwashed and scared.

 _Scared_ , and letting that be the driving factor in his decisions.

That wasn't the man Carlton wanted to be.

It wasn't the man he _was_.

And both he and the man he hoped would soon become his lover deserved so, _so_ much better.

Carlton found Shawn's hands with his own, laced their fingers together, and leaning in, broke the kiss, his lips brushing against the tender flesh below the psychic's earlobe. And, as he pressed his body forward to meld them together, leg slipping between Spencer's to force the psychic's apart, Shawn moaned in response.

The sound shot sparks of heat into Carlton's groin, racing spitfire quick through his veins.

"God, Spencer," he started, voice whisper-thin but loaded with emotion; gravelly and deep, like thunder in the far-off distance. Hearing the rumble escape his own throat, he knew it was the most honest he'd ever allowed himself to be. And though it should have scared him, instead it egged him on, making him realize how real his feelings really were. "When I thought you were dead…"

He didn't expect it, but something shifted between them, and in that moment Spencer's skin turned to gooseflesh in his hands. He couldn't put his finger on it but Carlton _felt_ something shift between them – something he didn't have words for and couldn't comprehend, Shawn shivering as the words washed over him.

It was magic, _palpable_ magic, and Carlton could almost taste it on the tip of his tongue before he was interrupted.

"Lassie, wait. Stop."

Shawn protested, words turning into a moan when the detective slipped his fingers free to dance along collarbone, soft but slightly calloused digits skirting across Shawn's sun-dappled and soot-covered skin. But the psychic caught those fingers and held them in place and Carlton frowned, the flat of his hand resting against Spencer's pounding chest as he continued to speak.

"Lassie. What are you doing? You said we could talk."

It's true. He had. And would. But even if he was the only one who felt it, the moment was too intense to for him to interrupt with words, the feelings he'd carried around for too long forcing their way out through kisses and touches and caresses, the need to make sure Shawn was real – that he hadn't died horrifically in that explosion and that whatever was between them could begin to heal – overwhelming him.

"So talk."

Face nuzzled in the crook of the psychic's neck, he mumbled into Spencer's skin and inhaled, the smell of gasoline and charred plaid sending a jolt straight through him.

"Never stopped you before."

Shawn turned his head to look at him then, which was when Carlton took the opportunity to connect their mouths again, the stolen kiss eager, equally sloppy and sweet. And, noticing the lack of resistance, Carlton kissed him lazily – tasting Spencer as if the only thing he had to do for the rest of his life was seduce the man, his tongue slowly slipping past the psychic's teeth as he lackadaisically devoured him.

Whimpering into his mouth, Shawn's hands clutched at the dark grey of Carltons jacket.

Carlton's pulse raced in return, heart beating so hard he was surprised it hadn't split open his shirt.

Well, would have been surprised, if he weren't so swept away by the feeling.

It took almost nothing for this man to turn him on; how or why he'd ever tried to deny it in the first place was beyond him.

It was _obvious_ they were meant to be together.

The proof was in the way he felt when Shawn touched him. Taunted him. Teased him.

The way he stayed in Carlton's head in his daylight hours _and_ in his dreams, Spencer's obnoxious antics somehow irritating and arousing, a thing he used to hate and now somehow finds himself looking forward to.

The way the man cared for those he had deemed worthy somehow both frustrating and astounding, those few becoming the most important things in his life.

Carlton was hooked, line and sinker; stick a fork in him, he was done.

Shawn broke away first, breath heavy, his usually hazel eyes a brilliant flash of green. Oblivious to the thoughts racing through the Irishman's mind, he looked up at the detective, a sharp look on his face as he licked his lip and spoke something Carlton hated but had no choice but to admit to.

"You hurt me, Lassie."

Abashed, Carlton's head dropped to his chest.

He stared at Shawn's feet as he answered, too ashamed to look him in the face.

It was true. He had, though he hoped to God that it would never happen again.

Carlton was shit at relationships, he knew that. _Everybody_ knew that. But there was something about the way Shawn looked at him in that moment that made him want to try harder than he ever had before.

He was going to fuck up again eventually. Shawn would, too; it was just in their natures, as human beings and as flawed men. But the thought of putting the psychic through the pain that he had, even a fraction of the pain he had, for a second time made Carlton feel sick. Which is why he swore to himself right then that if he was somehow lucky enough to get to do it all again, he was going to do everything in his power to do it better.

So much better.

Shawn deserved it.

They both did.

"I know."

The words were a breath, riddled with an awareness that ate away at him like poison.

Shawn cocked his head and continued, and though he still couldn't look directly at the man, Carlton could see him out of the corner of his eye. Shawn's face was blank, his voice low and emotive, and it let Lassiter know that the admission alone wasn't enough to fix things.

"You acted like I don't have feelings, too, Lassiepants. But I'm _chock-full_ of feelings and you just walked all over them with your pointy oversized clown shoes."

Looking up, Carlton sighed, the truth of the matter slicing into him and settling deep.

It _was_ true. Far more than he wanted it to be. And though he would give anything to take it back, to his immense shame, he couldn't.

Tone apologetic as the words tumbled from his mouth, he agreed.

"I know."

He paused, brow furrowed.

Words weren't enough, and he knew that, too.

"I'm an asshole."

But they were a start.

"Honestly Lassie, asshole is the nicest phrase I'd use for it," Shawn said. It was clear he was refusing to hold back, but at the same time, his arms wrapped back around Carlton's waist and tempered the flood of emotion that came as each syllable hit the cop's ears. "You should hear some of the things _Gus_ called you."

Carlton nodded.

"I imagine he got pretty creative."

Guster had an IQ rivalling his own and a vernacular even larger and, for a flickering moment, he indulged in his curiosity as to what well-earned phrases the pharma-rep had come up with, the man not known for his potty-mouth. But, intrigued though Carlton was, he knew it wasn't the time to get into it and dropped the train of thought to continue with his apology.

"And as much as I'm loath to admit it, I deserve everything he said. Probably more than what he said. I was horrible, Spencer. I know this. And I was scared, not that it's an excuse. But more than anything, I'm sorry. I… I wasn't thinking about you."

He paused. Swallowed, heart beating in his chest like a caged bird's wings as it tried to break free from its wrought-iron prison.

"But I should have been."

Shawn's eyes softened in the dim light, just a little.

"I want to make it right. There's nothing I can do to erase what happened, but I'd still like to try. If you'll let me."

Surprised by the unexpected honesty, Shawn looked at Carlton as Carlton stared at Shawn, a myriad of emotion crossing the span of two fallen faces in a single years-long second.

"Okay."

The word was barely a whisper, but the acquiescence was everything Carlton had ever wanted to hear, presented to him in four beautiful little letters. And while he spoke, Spencer nodded his head in affirmation, clearly startled at himself for agreeing so easily but either unable or unwilling to stop himself.

It didn't matter though. Not when the result was the same.

Aware of exactly the type of fight the man could put up when he wanted, Carlton was startled too. But instead of worrying about it - instead of tearing himself up inside over how quick he was to agree without argument - Carlton stepped closer, wasting no time in pressing his mouth against the psychic's.

Shawn's chest tightened and he could feel the man's heart pound and how his whole body became gooseflesh as he let his hands wander. And in that moment, Carlton relished in the knowledge that Shawn was relishing it too.

He'd wanted to do it for so long - wanted to run his fingers across the dips and divots and ridges and planes of Spencer's ribcage ever since denying himself all those weeks ago. Had almost been desperate for it, the idea of his fingers on Spencer's flesh so pervasive, flickering through his mind at even the most inopportune of times. And now, nothing there to stop him, he did exactly that, deft fingers sliding quickly and stealthily inside the man's partially buttoned blue and brown plaid shirt.

 _Nothing_ was going to stop him anymore.

Not after what he had just been through.

What _they_ had been through.

That thought in mind, tongues tangled in a mock battle for dominance, and their kiss morphed into something hot and hungry as Carlton licked into Shawn's mouth, the psychic whimpering as the cop took control. It was hot and dirty and soft and sweet, all passion and possession and burning wet heat, and it wasn't long before Carton found himself repositioning to allow for a better angle, the cop pulling away to bite at the slightly salty skin of the psychic's neck, chuckling when his fingers slid beneath the dark denim Spencer wore to find his favorite fraud going commando.

Shawn swore, the word a gasp as his hips bucked into Carlton's searching hand, back arched as the cop found hot, hard flesh; Carlton's long fingers sliding lackadaisically down Shawn's shaft to free him.

"Fuck…"

Carlton whispered in response, lips pressed against the tender flesh beneath the psychic's jaw. He sucked a sign of possession into his skin, his mouth a brand announcing to the world that Shawn was his.

 _His._

"Not quite."

Shawn laughed, a nervous and overwhelmed laugh that broke off when he hissed at the sensation. And when the detective's dastardly digits wrapped around him with a grip like velvet-covered steel, he mumbled -

"Goddamn it, Lassie."

\- into what flesh his mouth could reach, face pressed against the detective's as his breath hitched.

Turning his head to kiss him again, Carlton smiled. Their lips connected with a spark that burned deep in his belly, his body thrumming with excitement, as Spencer's arms slipped beneath his coat to wrap around his waist. Shawn's lips were soft and pliant, the scrape of stubble against Carlton's jaw setting him alight.

Setting him on fire.

Making him feel like he was about to explode, splatter against the walls and live as nothing but a memory of how he felt at Shawn's touch.

Exhilarated and terrified, the cop's hand drifted, drawing out another sensual sound from between Shawn's lips, the inarticulate noises sending waves of electricity skating down Carlton's spine.

"Yes, Spencer?" he drawled, enraptured by the agony he knew he must be putting the man through. By the agony he was putting _himself_ through.

He'd spent the entirety of their non-relationship taking, and now the tables had turned, found himself enjoying the opportunity to give far more than he had expected he would.

He loved the way Shawn moaned.

Shook.

Loved the knowledge that _he_ was making Shawn feel this way.

For a whole host of reasons, Carlton really should have reciprocated sooner.

"Wha- what are you doing?" Shawn said.

Melting into Carlton's talented hand, he looked at him with eyes full of wonder, the amazement at the motions the cop made obvious. And Carlton responded by licking at the hollow of Shawn's throat, nipping and kissing his way down past exposed collarbone as he slowly lowered himself to his knees, the psychic's eyes sparkling once he realized where things were headed.

"Whatever you want, Spencer," he said plainly, holding the man's gaze. He had said it before, but now it seemed that Shawn was finally understanding what he meant, the feeling both chilled and thrilled him. In a heart-warming, ball-tightening, unexpectedly amusing sort of way.

But he knew he couldn't allow himself to get too wrapped up in it. Not when the psychic groaned, lips pressed together like he couldn't believe this was happening - like Shawn didn't want to open his mouth lest he say the wrong thing and make it go away.

Carlton suppressed a chuckle at the sight, a mischievous look on his face.

"What do you want?" he asked, softly, tongue darting out to taste the tiny drop of pre-cum he found at the tip of Shawn's erection, flicking into the slit when Shawn reacted favorably.

He savored its flavor, sharp and tangy and undeniably _Spencer_ , heartbeat fluttering as he registered the psychic's bliss.

Voice low and filled with heat, he continued.

"Do you want this?"

Fingers digging into his shoulders, Spencer mewled.

Carlton took it as encouragement.

Of course, Shawn wanted this. Maybe even as much as Carlton did.

But he'd never actually blown somebody before.

He'd thought about it once or twice since Shawn had wrapped his own lips around Carlton's dick, but never had a dick passed through his. Never even come close. But inexperienced as he was, Carlton prided himself on being an enthusiastic lover, able to listen to another's body and their words, knowing when and how to move or not move based on their reactions.

And god, was Shawn ever reacting.

So, though he was winging it, he continued, hearing no complaints and reveling in the feeling of Shawn's fingers against his scalp, the digits having left his shoulders to twist into his hair. He licked at the crown of the psychic's cock like he'd seen the man do to many an orange crème-sicle. Flattened his tongue and swirled it around the tip before sucking it deep into his mouth. Hollowed his cheeks as he bobbed up and down, the memory of Shawn recently performing that move on his ice-cream weakening his knees.

When Shawn's own knees buckled, Carlton grinned and grabbed him by the hip to steady him, glad the act affected the cocky consultant the same way.

"Oh, God, Lassie. Fuck, Lassie, yes. Yes, please. _Please."_

Carlton felt a surge of pride at that, determined now more than ever to make the man unravel. Determined to make the man moan his name more often, even if only the nickname he had once upon a time hated with a fiery passion.

The psychic's thighs quivered. Carlton could feel his heart beat through his veins as his big hands held onto mobile hips, Shawn's body carting forward as he slid deeper down Carlton's throat, pants around his ankles and euphoria on his face.

His pulse raced to match Shawn's own.

It wouldn't be long before he achieved success.

With just a little bit of time, a few flicks of the tongue, and a little something extra, Carlton knew he could make Shawn fall to pieces.

He _knew_ it. Like he knew grass was green, the sky was blue, and that he was falling head over heels.

And shortly thereafter, fall to pieces was exactly what Shawn did.

"Ohh, god. Fuck, Lassie. Yessssssss, just like that."

* * *

Shawn had no idea what was happening.

Well, he knew his dick was tickling Lassie's tonsils, but past that? His flabber was completely and utterly gasted, mind beyond boggled by how he'd managed to stumble into such a delightfully pornographic position.

He had saved Morgan - looking like a total bad-ass while doing so - and caught the bad guy (shame about it being Army Johnson), then gotten the A-OK from the paramedics. Other than some mild smoke inhalation, he was in perfect health for someone who'd almost gotten blown up. But he was exhausted, feeling it both physically and emotionally, bone deep.

By the time he was done his check-up, Gus had finagled himself into a position where he was able to chat up Conrad while she was being checked for her own injuries, Juliet giving orders a few feet away over the phone. So, both buddies busy, Shawn decided to head back to the car to wait until they were finished and could turn their attention to him instead, too tired to interrupt like he normally would have.

And though he had tried, to his chagrin, Shawn hadn't been able to find Lassie in the fray, which meant he was left with nothing to do and no one to bother. But lacking Lassiter also meant that he was free to catch up on some napping while he waited - the Blueberry the perfect place to do so. Lo and behold when he had found the detective nearby, leaning up against a wall, all wistful and weary-eyed!

How they'd gone from there to here so quickly, however, confused the hell out of him. One minute, they were maintaining a barely amicable working relationship; the next, his dick was down the detective's throat. But, far too easy to allow himself to get distracted by the excitement the cop was creating in his pants, Shawn wasn't about to complain about it, choosing instead to enjoy the moment for what it was.

Because once the fun was over a serious conversation was going to have to be had.

One he wasn't sure either were ready for.

A niggling voice in the back of Shawn's head – one that kind of sounded like Gus and kind of sounded like his mom, an odd and disconcerting combination if ever there was one- told him the exhilaration of Lassie mouth on his junk was a temporary thing; a moment of joy that would last only until his orgasm ended, the detective likely to shy away from his desire the moment reality caught up to him.

He didn't want it to be true. _Desperately_ didn't want it to be true. But seeing as how Lassie's brand seemed to be starting things he refused to finish, Shawn had been burned by the man too many times before to fathom an alternate ending, sad though it might be.

His dick was up, but he knew better than to allow his hopes to do the same. True, at that exact moment things felt _phenomenal_ and yes, by the looks of it, this time Shawn _would_ get to finish, the not-psychic couldn't help but want to guard himself against what he assumed would be inevitable pain, their track record suggesting it would wind up that way once again.

Yet…

Past-Lassie had only ever made the first move because Shawn had spurred him to, their dalliances occurring because he'd kick-started the detective into action. This time was different, though; Lassiter had accosted him all on his own, no help from anyone or thing other than Shawn's near-death experience. He had reached his hand out to touch Shawn, reached his words out to caress him – words that Shawn had once spoken to try to make Lassie understand that his own feelings delved far deeper than just desire - and it left him wondering if the cop's choice of statement was meant to echo the emotion he himself had felt at the time.

When he'd spoken in the bar, Shawn knew he was falling for the Lassiter – had already fallen, harder than he had when the detective had shoved him out of the car all those many nights ago, if he was being honest with himself – and his heart caught in his throat when he realized the feeling might not go just one way.

That the emotion might be reciprocated.

Was it possible the explosion had not only demolished the building, but Lassiter's reticence as well? He had apologized, after all. More than that, he had admitted he was wrong - that he been _scared_ \- something the psychic was sure he'd never hear.

So, he wondered, was it safe to assume that Carlton's mouth on his cock, hot and wet and needy, moving over his flesh devilishly and doing so at an active fucking crime scene of all places… did that mean that Lassie wasn't scared anymore? That he had moved past his self-hating bullshit and stepped into a place where he not only wanted Shawn's affection but wanted to return it as well?

Both men having come a long way from that night in the bathroom, it surely had to mean something.

But what?

Shawn wasn't sure. Nor was he likely to figure it out any time soon, because that was when Lassie began to hum - a tune Shawn thought he recognized but couldn't quite recall, his brain flying out the window the second the sound began. He took a moment to appreciate the image – to let it sear into his brain like it was being branded there - and found himself surprised when Lassiter's mouth continued to maneuver, the man swallowing him whole, face pressed into the psychic's soft pubic hair as he slid nose to groin and nuzzled.

Looking down at the detective, Shawn scrambled for coherent thought, mind and cock both utterly blown, the combination of sight and sensation doing something to him that he didn't have words for. That he didn't even _need_ words for, not with his feelings as strong as they were. But he failed. Failed _hard._ And as he did so, the edges of his world grew hazy, the last thought in his head before he crumbled an amazed one.

 _If Lassie's never had a dick in his mouth, he must be a cock-sucking savant._

* * *

Carlton wiped his lower lip, rising to his feet and watching in amusement as Shawn leaned against the grimy wall and struggled to zip his pants.

The psychic caught his eye, a sated and stupid look on his face as he opened his mouth to speak, and Carlton grinned at the intelligence that fell from it.

"That was…" Shawn paused, more flustered than Carlton could remember seeing him. "Umm..."

Proud of himself for reducing the psychic to something far less suave than he pretended to be, both Carlton's grin and his desire to ruffle the man grew wider. Eyes locked on Spencer's, he lifted his hand to his face and licked the tip of his thumb, reveling in the look of shock on Shawn's face as his tongue swiped away the mess left behind.

"Sweet?" he supplied.

Spencer turned pink, a chuckle escaping him as he ran his hand along the short hairs at the back of his neck.

"Well yeah, Lassie." He flashed the cop a sheepish grin. "I mean, you didn't think I ate all that pineapple for my _own_ benefit, did you?"

Carlton felt the blood rush to his ears, a blush creeping across his face to match the one Spencer wore.

"Honestly, I guess I just thought it was one of your quirks," he shrugged.

Shawn laughed, loud and raucous, like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard Carlton say.

"Think about my quirks often, do you?"

Finished with his pants, Spencer started in on his shirt, obviously aware of the answer and smirking as he spoke. But Carlton chose to ignore the gentle mockery, instead stepping forward to help, his fingers running along the psychic's ribcage before bringing the fabric closed.

He loved the feel of the other man's flesh. _Loved_ it.

And now he'd finally given himself permission, he was determined to enjoy it as often as he could; the sensation like a drug coursing through his veins - a touch-drug; illicit and illegal, or at least the feelings it smothered him with were so intense that it should be.

Straightening the shirt's lapels and smoothing down its front, he muttered, task completed.

"I do these days."

He shook his head at the absurdity of it and took a step back to admire his handiwork, contentment enveloping him instead of what was once confusion.

He was happy.

 _Shawn Spencer_ made him happy.

If that just wasn't the craziest thing.

"You'll d-" he began, before being interrupted by the focus of his thoughts, Shawn's face far too serious for the question he was asking.

"What were you humming?"

There was something weird about the tone of his voice, almost like his brain had ground to a halt, his inability to recollect the tune nearly murdering the mood that had just been set. It was odd and unexpected and because of it, it took a second for Carlton to register the comment. And when the words finally sunk in? He laughed, open and free.

"Don't tell me you don't recognize it, Spencer. I thought _you_ of all people would know it inside out."

Arms wrapped around the detective's waist, Shawn took the opportunity to snuggle close, an act of intimacy so sweet it made Carlton's skin tingle.

"What are you talking about, Lassiekins?" he mumbled into Carlton's chest, lips tickling the exposed skin of his sternum, his tie discarded somewhere along the way.

The motion gave Carlton the warm and fuzzies.

He never would have guessed Spencer to be especially affectionate - though really, he should have, considering how touchy-feely the man had been towards him over the years - and was surprised by how much he loved the fact that it was aimed his way. It was almost as if Shawn was touch starved, not simply an attention whore but desperate for a real connection, something that meant more than a hand on his shoulder or a friendly punch in the arm. Something that meant more than the soft caress of someone who would be gone in the morning, unlikely to ever remember your name. And, as he became aware of it, Carlton's stomach twisted into a pit of pity and despair, the realization that he'd been mistaking Shawn's actions as annoyance instead of what they really were - failing to see his heart and soul and need and desire, even though the man had been baring it to him for ages - weakening his knees just as the explosion had weakened his resolve.

"Just because I have near-encyclopaedic knowledge of 80's -" Shawn continued, a small and adorable frown wrinkling his brow.

"Oh, it has nothing to do with the vault of pop-culture knowledge you keep in that big brain of yours," Carlton interjected, cocking his head to look down at the other man, enjoying the opportunity to flip their dynamic on its head and rid himself of an anguished feeling he couldn't otherwise fix.

He'd learned the hard way that the past would always be the past. There was nothing he could do to change that. But there was plenty he could do to change the future, and that's exactly what he intended to do. So he wrapped his arms around the man, hands running down his arms and back as he held him close and teased the crap out of him.

It was a delicious and uncommon novelty, the cop so used to it being the other way around, and you could be damn sure he was going to milk it for all it was worth.

Shawn, of course, protested, his arms tightening at the detective's midsection as he searched Carlton's face for the answer.

"But I'm sure it came out in the late 80's, Lassiepants! It sounds exactly like it's from the land of hammerpants and Degrassi Junior High!"

Leaning in for another kiss, Carlton purred, pleased and surprised that they hadn't yet been discovered. It wasn't smart, he knew, but he also wasn't ready for things to end, so decided to push his luck a little further, far too happy basking in the glow of their togetherness.

(And wanting to torment the man in his arms a little longer, of course.)

"Mmmm. Doesn't matter, psychic. It's not the reason you should know it. Are the spirits failing you all of a sudden?"

A childlike scowl crossed Spencer's face, a petulant reaction if ever Carlton had seen one, and he found himself laughing when the man replied unexpectedly with an easy air and a lopsided grin.

"Obviously, Classy Lassie! They couldn't bear to witness our down and dirty. You _clearly_ frightened them away. Except for Todd. Todd's a pervert and says thanks for the show. But also that he doesn't know the answer, either."

Carlton just shook his head, eyes crinkling with mirth, his silence goading the psychic more than his words ever could. It was fucking _delightful_ , the conniption Shawn worked himself towards the most beautiful thing he'd experienced in a while.

He would have to remember the tactic - silence really _was_ golden.

"Gimme a hint?" his lover asked, lower lip quivering melodramatically in a way that put small children to shame.

His _lover_.

Holy shit, Shawn was his lover.

When it turned into the most pathetic pout he had ever seen, big bright puppy dog eyes turned his way, Carlton couldn't help but crumble.

It was a weird juxtaposition; he knew the psychic was twisting him around his finger, the expression a manipulation tactic of his very own. But combined with the thoughts flashing in his head, the memory of Spencer grabbing his crotch on the karaoke stage, and how he'd looked when he'd done so, the cop shivered, shaken by the promise that had been on Shawn's face and remembering exactly how it had been made to come true.

"What do you do when you think about me?" he asked, voice hoarse and heavy at the thought.

The answer evident, Shawn's face split into a lascivious grin.

"I Touch Myself!" he exclaimed, his arms flying around his detective's shoulders in delight, fingers splayed wide against the back of Carlton's neck. "You _did_ like my performance after all!"

"Mmhmm," Carlton whispered, burrowing into Shawn's neck and placing tiny kisses along the length of it to distract the man, his voice low and sensual in response. "A touch too much, if you'll recall. Now…" he said, nipping at thin skin and hoping it left a little sting behind, knowing in his gut that Shawn would like it if it did. "What year?"

Shifting in place, Shawn wracked his brain.

It seemed like it took forever, but when he finally figured out the answer, he groaned. Unable to believe he was wrong, the sound quickly turned into a grumble as he admitted his failure and Carlton's success.

"November. Of 19-frikkin'-90."

Carlton stuck out his tongue, his heart fluttering at the surprised look on Spencer's face, the man reacting beautifully to the expression he had never seen Carlton wear before. That Carlton _himself_ wasn't sure he'd ever worn before. It was crazy, how happiness seemed to suit him – _true happiness_ \- to a degree he wasn't used to experiencing, the psychic already bringing out a side of himself he hadn't allowed to see the light of day in a very long while.

"See? Not the '80's at all. You were wrong," the cop replied smugly. "Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. And in case you weren't quite sure, I _love it_ when you're wrong."

Shawn laughed, his eyes sparkling with glee as he acknowledged his defeat.

"You suck," he said, kissing Carlton on the tip of his nose and holding him close, body pressed against body like he never wanted them to part.

It was possible he didn't.

Carlton didn't, either.

But he knew they'd have to, and dipped his head and kissed his psychic again, pulling away only to agree.

"Clearly."

* * *

"Shawn, you over here?"

Both men froze, Gus's voice ringing out from across the parking lot.

Closing in on the Blueberry, the more responsible of the Psych duo continued to call out as he approached. "If you are, you better be ready and waiting to go. I swear to God, if you're about to jump out at me from somewhere to try to make me wet myself like you did back in third grade, I'm gonna be pissed."

Guster paused.

"Pun not intended, Shawn. Pun _not_ intended."

Carlton shot Shawn a questioning glance and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Do that often?" he mouthed, gathering control of himself.

Shawn shrugged.

"Old habits die hard."

"Shawn, you better not be messing with me. Getting blown up is exhausting. I just wanna shower and sleep and eat. Maybe not even in that order."

Carlton opened his mouth to speak again but Shawn interjected, keeping his voice low as not to be overheard.

"Not now, Lassie. Timing's bad." He stepped away, looking like it killed him to do so. "But soon. I promise. I just… I gotta go."

Carlton reached out after him, a little unsettled by how quickly he found himself becoming attached, finding that he missed the man's presence in his arms already.

 _Already_.

Jesus Christ, he had it bad.

He couldn't ever remember having it this bad.

Not for his college girlfriend, not for his ex-wife, not for the handful of women he'd bedded since then.

It was exquisite and it was agonizing, and he wondered if this was a fraction of what addicts felt like when they couldn't get their next fix.

"We need to talk, you said."

"We do, and we will," Shawn agreed. "But not now. I'll text you. Or call. Or show up at your house in the middle of the night with a jar of Skippy and some department issued handcuffs. Don't worry; we'll figure something out."

Carlton smirked, adding another odd behavior to the list of things he needed to worry about. He wouldn't put it past Shawn even slightly and made a mental note to reinforce the locks on his door.

"And until then?" he asked.

"Things remain the same?" Shawn offered, Cheshire Cat grin on his face. The tips of his fingers trailed against Carlton's as he turned to leave.

It felt like kerosene burning through his veins.

"But with more smoochies, of course."

His heart caught in his chest.

"Of course."

Of course it was of course. Carlton wouldn't have it any other way.

What more could he say? That he was falling in love with the man, harder than he'd ever fallen for anyone before? That his entire world had been changed by this event – not just the explosion and the blowjob, but the unprecedented feelings that came with it? Feelings that rained down on him like a torrent of pouring emotion, too heavy for any umbrella to bear?

That he was sorry? More sorry than was even humanly possible?

None of it mattered, because he was sure Shawn knew it all.

"I can't wait to kiss you again," Shawn smiled, leaving him with a lingering look of desire as he stepped out into the light provided by the half-closed door. The bottom part of his body appeared in the sun outside like a bad Monty Python gag as he made himself known to his friend, and Carlton covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a laugh. "In here, buddy! Dropped my keys earlier – just found 'em!"

He turned to consider Carlton one last time, blowing a kiss from the door before ducking beneath it to rejoin the real world.

Carlton caught it and held it close to his heart, the muscle pitter-pattering in his chest. And as he recognized and allowed himself to feel like an overjoyed schoolgirl, he leaned against the spot on the wall his lover had vacated and reveled in the moment he felt was more than earned and far too long coming.

"Get anywhere with Conrad?" he heard Shawn ask his best friend and partner in crime as they met near the car. "I mean, I know she's hospital bound, but she seemed pretty into your ooey-gooey chocolatey goodness..."

"Well... up until today, she had not, as a matter of fact, heard about Pluto."

Guster responded, and Carlton heard Shawn laugh as he climbed into the car.

The sound, once grating and obnoxious, was music to his ears.

"You don't say? That's pretty messed up, bro."

A lot was messed up, Carlton knew. But a lot was finally starting to go his way.

He had his dream job, a good partner and friend, and once they untangled the mess they'd made together, he'd have Shawn to call his own.

For once, everything in his life was wonderful.

And that was just fine.

More than fine.

Resting his head against the wall behind him, Carlton smiled.

It was downright dandy.


End file.
